NORA  CONNOLLY 


THE  IRISH  REBELLION  OF  1916 

OR 

THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 


THE 

IRISH  REBELLION  qf  1916 

OR 
THE   UNBROKEN   TRADITION 


BY 

NORA  CONNOLLY 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 
NEW  YORE 


Copyright,  1918, 

Copyright,  1919, 

By  Boni  &  Liveright,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


n  a 


b  c~ 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

James  Connolly    .     ._._._...     .        Frontispiece 
Countess  Markievietz      ....       Facing  page    12 

Thomas  J.  Clarke "  "36 

The  Proclamation  of  the  Provisional  Government 
issued  at  the  G.  P.  O.  on  Monday,  April  24, 
1917 Facing  page    44 

John  McDermott        .      .     .     .      . 

Nora  Connolly      »     % ■--. %**•'■ 

Liberty  Hall 

Joseph  Plunkett 

Thomas  Macdonagh        .... 

Eoin  MacNeill 

Patrick  H.  Pearse 

Eamonn  Ceannt 


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MAPS 


PAGE 

22 


The  Journey  from  Belfast  to  Leek        .     .     . 

The  Journey  from  Dundalk  to  Dublin       ...       23 

Map  of  Dublin Facing  page  164 


j..  r..-  •:. ;  m  i  icd 


INTRODUCTION 

There  have  been  many  attempts  to  explain 
the  revolution  which  took  place  in  Ireland  dur- 
ing Easter  Week,  1916.  And  all  of  them  give 
different  reasons.  Some  have  it  that  it  was 
caused  by  the  resentment  that  grew  out  of  the 
Dublin  Strike  of  1912-13;  others,  that  it  was 
the  threatened  Ulster  rebellion,  and  there  are 
many  other  equally  wrong  explanations.  All 
these  writers  ignore  the  main  fact  that  the 
Revolution  was  caused  by  the  English  occu- 
pation of  Ireland. 

So  many  people  not  conversant  with  Irish 
affairs  ask:  Why  a  revolution?  Why  was  it 
necessary  to  appeal  to  arms?  Why  was  it  nec- 
essary to  risk  death  and  imprisonment  for  the 
self-government  of  Ireland?  They  say  that 
there  wTas  already  in  existence  an  Act  for  the 
Self-government  of  Ireland,  that  it  had  been 
passed  through  the  English  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  that  if  we  had  waited  till  the  end  of 
the  war  we  would  have  been  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  govern  ourselves.    That  they  are  not 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

conversant  with  Irish  affairs  must  be  their  ex- 
cuse for  thinking  in  that  manner  of  our  strug- 
gle for  freedom. 

To  be  able  to  think  and  to  speak  thus  one 
must  first  recognize  the  right  of  the  English  to 
govern  Ireland,  for  only  by  so  doing  can  we 
logically  accept  any  measure  of  self-govern- 
ment from  England. 

And  we  cannot  do  so,  for,  as  a  nation  Ire- 
land has  never  recognized  England  as  her  con- 
queror, but  as  her  antagonist,  as  an  enemy 
that  must  be  fought.  And  this  attitude  has 
succeeded  in  keeping  the  soul  of  Ireland  alive 
and  free. 

For  the  conquest  of  a  nation  is  never  com- 
plete till  its  soul  submits,  and  the  submission 
of  the  soul  of  a  nation  to  the  conqueror  makes 
its  slavery  and  subjection  more  sure.  But  the 
soul  of  Ireland  has  never  submitted.  And 
sometimes  when  the  struggle  seemed  hopeless, 
and  sacrifice  useless,  and  there  was  thought  to 
make  truce  with  the  foe,  the  voice  of  the  soul 
of  Ireland  spoke  and  urged  the  nation  once 
more  to  resist.  And  the  voice  of  the  soul  of 
Ireland  has  the  clangor  of  battle. 

There  have  been  many  attempts  to  drown 
the  voice  of  the  soul  of  Ireland  ever  since  the 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

coming  of  the  English  into  our  country.  There 
have  been  some  who  have  had  the  God-given 
gift  of  leadership,  but  still  sought  to  misin- 
terpret the  sound  of  the  voice ;  who  in  shutting 
their  ears  to  the  call  for  battle  have  helped  to 
fasten  the  shackles  of  slavery  more  securely 
on  their  country. 

There  was  Daniel  O'Connell  who  possessed 
the  divine  gift  of  leadership  and  oratory,  and 
in  whose  tones  the  people  recognized  the  voice 
of  Ireland  and  flocked  around  him.  During 
the  agitation  for  the  Repeal  of  the  union  be- 
tween Ireland  and  England  the  people  fol- 
lowed O'Connell  and  wdted  for  him  to  give 
the  word.  Never  for  one  moment  did  they  be- 
lieve that  the  movement  was  merely  a  consti- 
tutional one.  Sensibly  enough  they  knew  that 
speeches,  meetings  and  cheers  would  never 
win  for  them  the  freedom  of  their  country. 
They  knew  that  force  alone  would  compel 
England  to  forego  her  hold  upon  any  of  her 
possessions. 

So  that  when  in  1844  O'Connell  sent  out  the 
call  bidding  all  the  people  of  Ireland  to  muster 
at  Clontarf,  outside  Dublin,  they  believed  that 
the  day  had  come,  and  from  North,  South,  East 
and  West  they  started  on  the  journey.    Those 


x  INTRODUCTION 

who  lived  in  the  West  and  South  traveled  the 
distance  in  all  sorts  of  conveyances,  many  of 
them,  especially  the  poorer  ones,  walked  the 
distance;  but  the  trouble,  the  weariness,  the 
hardship  were  all  ignored  by  them  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  they  were  once  more  mustering  to  do 
battle  for  the  freedom  of  their  country. 

But  in  the  meantime,  while  the  people  were 
making  all  speed  to  obey  the  summons  of 
O'Connell,  the  meeting  had  been  proclaimed 
by  the  British  Government;  and  the  place  of 
muster  was  lined  with  regiments  of  soldiers 
with  artillery  with  orders  to  mow  down  the 
people  if  they  attempted  to  approach  the  meet- 
ing place.  Then  it  was  that  O'Connell  failed 
the  people  of  Ireland,  and  rung  the  knell  for 
the  belief  of  the  Irish  people  in  constitutional- 
ism. He  said,  "All  the  freedom  in  the  world 
is  not  worth  one  drop  of  human  blood,"  and 
commanded  the  people  to  obey  the  order  of  the 
British  Government  and  to  return  to  their 
homes. 

There  are  many  pitiful,  heart-breaking  sto- 
ries told  of  the  manner  in  which  this  command 
of  O'Connell  reached  the  people.  Many  who 
had  walked  miles  upon  miles  reached  the  out- 
skirts of  Dublin  only  to  meet  the  people  pour- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

iiig  out  of  it.  When  in  return  to  their  ques- 
tions they  were  told  that  it  was  the  request  of 
O'Connell  that  they  return  to  their  homes,  the 
heart  within  them  broke  for  they  knew  that 
their  idol  had  failed  them,  and  their  hopes  of 
freeing  Ireland  were  shattered. 

Within  the  Repeal  Association  there  was 
another  organization  called  the  Young  Ire- 
landers,  which  published  a  paper  called  The 
Nation.  This  paper  was  an  immense  factor  in 
arousing  and  keeping  alive  a  firm  nationalist 
opinion  in  Ireland.  The  Young  Irelanders 
were  revolutionists,  and  by  their  writings  coun- 
seled the  people  to  adopt  military  uniforms,  to 
study  military  tactics,  to  march  to  and  from 
the  meetings  in  military  order.  They  made  no 
secret  of  their  belief  that  the  freedom  of  Ire- 
land must  be  won  by  force  of  arms. 

During  the  famine  in  184*7,  when  the  people 
were  dying  by  the  hundreds,  although  there 
was  enough  food  to  feed  them,  the  Young  Ire- 
landers  worked  untiringly  to  save  the  people. 
At  that  time  potatoes  were  the  staple  food  of 
the  people,  everything  else  they  raised,  corn, 
pigs,  cattle,  etc.,  had  to  be  sold  to  pay  the  ter- 
rible rackrents.  The  Young  Irelanders  called 
upon  the  people  to  keep  the  food  in  the  country 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

and  save  themselves;  but  day  by  day  more  food 
was  shipped  from  the  starving  country  to  Eng- 
land ;  there  to  be  turned  into  money  to  pay  the 
grasping  landlords.  It  was  during  this  time 
that  John  Mitchell  was  arrested  and  transport- 
ed for  life  to  Van  Diemen's  land. 

In  1848  there  was  an  ill-fated  attempt  at  in- 
surrection. Even  in  the  midst  of  famine  and 
death,  with  the  people  dying  daily  by  the  road- 
side, there  was  still  the  belief  that  only  by  an 
appeal  to  force  and  arms  could  anything  be 
wrung  from  England.  In  Tipperary,  under 
Smith  O'Brien,  the  attempt  was  made,  more  as 
a  protest  then,  for  famine,  death,  and  misery 
had  thinned  the  ranks,  than  with  any  hopes  of 
winning  anything.  Most  of  the  leaders  were 
soon  arrested  and  four  of  them  were  sentenced 
to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered;  but  this 
sentence  was  afterwards  commuted  to  life  im- 
prisonment. 

For  many  years  after  the  famine  the  peo- 
ple were  quiescent,  and  had  grown  quite  un- 
caring about  Parliamentary  representation. 
And  then  was  formed  a  revolutionary  secret 
society  calling  itself  the  Fenians.  The  mem- 
bers of  this  organization  were  pledged  to  work 
for,  and,  when  the  time  came,  to  fight  for  and 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

establish,  an  Irish  Republic.  James  Stephens 
was  the  chief  organizer.  The  organization 
spread  through  Ireland  like  wildfire.  Even  the 
English  Army  and  Navy  were  honeycombed 
with  it.  Every  means  possible  were  taken  by 
the  English  to  cope  with  this  new  revolutionary 
movement — but  they  failed.  The  organization 
decided  that  a  Rising  would  take  place  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1867.  This  was  later  postponed;  but 
unfortunately  the  word  did  not  reach  the  South 
in  time  and  Kerry  rose.  The  word  spread  over 
Ireland  that  Kerry  was  up  in  arms.  Measures 
were  taken  by  the  English  to  meet  the  insurrec- 
tionists, but  before  they  reached  the  South  the 
men  had  learned  that  the  date  of  the  rising 
had  been  postponed  and  had  returned  to  their 
homes.  Luby,  O'Leary,  Kickham,  and  O'Don- 
ovan  Rossa  were  arrested.  Still  the  Rising 
took  place  on  the  appointed  date,  although 
doomed  to  failure  owing  to  the  crippling  of 
the  organization  by  the  arrest  of  its  leaders, 
and  the  lack  of  arms.  Even  the  elements  were 
against  the  revolutionists,  for  a  snowstorm, 
heavier  than  any  of  the  oldest  could  remem- 
ber having  seen,  fell  and  covered  the  country 
in  great  drifts. 

They  failed.    But  the  teaching  of  the  Fen- 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

ians  and  the  organization  they  founded  are 
alive  to-day.  It  was  the  members  of  this  or- 
ganization that  first  started  the  Irish  Volun- 
teers. Ever  on  the  watch  for  a  ripe  moment 
to  come  out  and  work  openly,  ever  longing  for 
the  day  when  military  instruction  could  be 
given  to  the  nationalist  youth,  they  seized  upon 
the  fact  that  if  the  Ulster  Volunteers  were  per- 
mitted to  drill  and  arm  themselves  to  fight  the 
English  Government  so  could  they.  And  in 
November,  1913,  they  called  a  meeting  in  the 
Rotunda,  Dublin,  and  invited  the  men  and 
women  of  Ireland  to  join  the  Irish  Volunteers, 
and  pledge  themselves  "to  maintain  and  secure 
the  rights  and  liberties  common  to  all  the  peo- 
ple of  Ireland." 

So  once  more  the  people  of  Ireland  heard  the 
call  to  arms,  and  right  royally  they  answered 
it.  The  Irish  Volunteer  Organization  spread 
throughout  the  land,  and  the  youth  of  Ireland 
were  being  trained  in  the  art  of  soldiering. 

Then  it  was  that,  like  Daniel  O'Connell  and 
other  constitutional  leaders,  Redmond  proved 
himself  of  the  body  and  not  the  soul  of  Ireland. 
He  did  not  follow  the  example  of  Parnell, 
whose  follower  he  was  supposed  to  be,  and  use 
the  threat  of  this  large  physical  force  party  to 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

gain  his  ends  from  the  English  Government. 
Parnell  used  to  say  to  the  British  House  of 
Commons :  "If  you  do  not  listen  to  me,  there 
is  a  large  band  of  physical  force  men,  with 
whom  I  have  no  influence,  and  upon  whom  I 
have  no  control,  and  they  will  compel  you  to 
listen  to  them."  But  Redmond,  jealous  of  all 
parties  outside  his  own  (knowing  well  that 
when  an  Irishman  had  a  rifle  in  his  hands  he  no 
longer  felt  subservient  to,  or  feared  England; 
and  that  when  the  people  of  Ireland  had  the 
means  to  demand  the  freedom  of  their  country 
they  grew  impatient  of  speech-making  and  pe- 
titioning), grew  fearful  for  the  loss  of  power 
of  the  Irish  Parliamentary  Party. 

He  knew  also,  that,  as  in  the  days  of  O'Con- 
nell,  Butt,  and  Parnell,  the  people  firmly  be- 
lieved that  all  the  talk  and  show  of  constitu- 
tionalism was  a  blind,  merely  a  throwing  of 
dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  English  Government, 
and  to  save  himself  and  his  Party  he  must  ap- 
prove this  physical  Force  party.  But  not  con- 
tent with  approval  he  needs  must  try  to  cap- 
ture the  Irish  Volunteers.  This  attempt,  I 
firmly  believe,  was  made  upon  the  advice,  or 
the  command  of  the  British  Government.  He 
sent  a  demand  to  the  Executive  Committee 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

that  a  number  of  his  appointees  be  received 
upon  the  Committee.  This  would  enable  him 
to  know  and  obstruct  all  measures  made  by 
the  Irish  Volunteers  and  would  prevent  the 
loss  of  power  of  the  Parliamentary  Party. 

By  the  votes  of  a  small  majority  of  the 
Committee  these  appointees  were  accepted. 
But  the  Committee  soon  found  out  that  it  was 
impossible  to  arm  and  prepare  men  for  a  revo- 
lution against  a  government,  while  the  paid 
servants  of  that  government  were  amongst 
them.  They  decided  to  part  company  even 
at  the  risk  of  a  division  in  the  ranks.  They 
knew  that  every  man  who  remained  with  them 
could  be  depended  upon  to  do  his  part  when 
the  time  for  the  Rising  came. 

Then  England  went  to  war.  Shortly  be- 
fore this  a  Home  Rule  Bill  had  passed  two 
readings  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Eng- 
land saw  the  stupidity  of  appealing  to  Irish- 
men to  go  to  fight  for  the  freedom  of  small 
nationalities,  while  any  measure  of  freedom 
was  denied  to  their  own.  So  the  Home  Rule 
Bill  passed  the  final  reading  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  was  put  upon  the  Statute 
Book.  Then  fearful  of  the  dissatisfaction  of 
the  Unionists  an  amendment  was  tacked  on 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

that  prevented  its  going  into  effect  until  after 
the  war. 

John  Redmond  dealt  the  final  blow  to  his 
influence  upon  Ireland  when  he  began  to  re- 
cruit for  the  English  Army.  Many  of  his 
followers,  taking  his  word  that  Home  Rule 
was  now  a  fact  entered  the  English  Army  at 
his  request.  They  were,  in  the  main,  young, 
foolish,  and  ignorant  fellows  unable  to  ana- 
lyze the  Bill  for  themselves,  and  therefore 
could  not  know  that  the  so-called  Home  Rule 
was  a  farce.  They  did  not  know  that  the  Bill 
gave  them  no  power  over  the  revenue,  over 
the  Post  Office,  over  the  Royal  Irish  Con- 
stabulary, that  they  could  not  raise  an  army, 
or  impose  a  tax,  and  that  no  law  passed  by 
the  Irish  Parliament  could  go  into  effect  until 
the  English  House  of  Commons  had  given  its 
approval.  It  was  like  telling  a  prisoner  that 
he  was  free  and  keeping  him  in  durance. 

And  from  the  beginning  of  the  war  the  Irish 
Volunteers  spent  all  the  time  they  could  in 
intensive  drilling,  not  knowing  at  what  time 
their  hand  might  be  forced,  or  the  opportune 
moment  for  the  Rising  might  arrive. 

For  in  Ireland  we  have  the  unbroken  tradi- 
tion of  struggle  for  our  freedom.     Every  gen- 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

eration  has  seen  blood  spilt,  and  sacrifice 
cheerfully  made  that  the  tradition  might  live. 
Our  songs  call  us  to  battle,  or  mourn  the  lost 
struggle;  our  stories  are  of  glorious  victory 
and  glorious  defeat.  And  it  is  through  them 
the  tradition  has  been  handed  down  till  an 
Irish  man  or  woman  has  no  greater  dream  of 
glory  than  that  of  dying 

"A  Soldier's  death  so  Ireland's  free." 


THE  IRISH  REBELLION  OF  1916 

OR 

THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 


My  first  mingling  with  an  actively,  openly 
drilling  revolutionary  body  took  place  during 
the  Dublin  strike  of  1912-1913.  I  was  living 
in  Belfast  then  and  had  come  to  Dublin  to  see 
how  things  were  managed,  how  the  food  was 
being  distributed  and  the  kitchens  run;  and,  in 
fact,  to  feel  the  spirit  of  the  people. 

James  Connolly,  my  father,  was  at  that  time 
in  Dublin  assisting  James  Larkin  to  direct  the 
strike.  He  was  my  pilot.  Liberty  Hall,  the 
headquarters  of  the  Irish  Transport  and  Gen- 
eral Workers  Union,  the  members  of  which 
were  on  strike,  was  first  visited.  It  is  situated 
on  Beresford  Place  facing  the  Custom  House 
and  the  River  LifFey.  In  the  early  part  of 
the  nineteenth  century  it  had  been  a  Chop 
House.  Almost  from  the  big  front  door  a 
wide  staircase  starts.  It  ends  at  the  second 
story.    From  there  it  branches  out  into  innu- 

l 


2     THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

merable  corridors  thickly  studded  with  doors. 
It  took  me  a  long  time  to  master  those  corri- 
dors. Always  I  seemed  to  be  finding  new 
ones.  Downstairs  on  the  first  floor  were  the 
theater  and  billiard  rooms;  and  below  them 
were  the  kitchens.  During  the  strike  these 
kitchens  were  used  to  prepare  food  for  the 
strikers.  It  was  to  the  kitchens  my  father  first 
piloted  me. 

Here  the  Countess  de  Markievicz  reigned 
supreme — all  meals  were  prepared  under  her 
direction.  There  were  big  tubs  on  the  floor; 
around  each  were  about  half  a  dozen  girls  peel- 
ing potatoes  and  other  vegetables.  There 
were  more  girls  at  tables  cutting  up  meat.  The 
Countess  kept  up  a  steady  march  around  the 
boilers  as  she  supervised  the  cooking.  She 
took  me  to  another  kitchen  where  more  delicate 
food  was  being  prepared  for  nursing  and  ex- 
pectant mothers. 

"We  used  to  give  the  food  out  at  first,"  she 
said.  "But  in  almost  every  case  we  found  that 
it  had  been  divided  amongst  the  family.  Now 
we  have  the  women  come  here  to  eat.  We  are 
sure  then  that  they  are  getting  something  suf- 
ficiently nourishing  to  keep  up  their  strength." 
She  showed  me  a  hall  with  a  long  table  in  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION    8 

center  and  chairs  around  it.  As  it  was  near 
the  "Mothers'  dinner  hour,"  as  the  girls  called 
it,  some  of  the  striking  women  and  girls  were 
there  to  act  as  waitresses. 

We  came  to  the  clothing  shop  next.  Some 
persons  had  caught  the  idea  of  sending  warm 
clothing  for  the  wives  and  children  of  the 
strikers;  accordingly  one  of  the  rooms  of  Lib- 
erty Hall  was  turned  into  an  alteration  room. 
Several  women  and  girls  were  working  from 
morning  to  night  altering  the  clothes  to  fit  the 
applicants.  One  of  the  girls  said  to  me,  "It 
was  a  wonder  to  us  at  first  the  number  of 
strikers  who  had  extra  large  families,  until  we 
found  out  that  in  many  cases  their  wives  had 
adopted  a  youngster  or  two  for  the  day,  and 
brought  them  along  to  get  clothed."  Not 
strictly  honest,  perhaps,  but  how  human  to 
wish  to  share  their  little  bit  of  good  fortune 
with  those  not  so  fortunate  as  themselves. 
How  many  little  boys  and  girls  knew  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives  the  feel  of  warm  stock- 
ings and  shoes,  and  how  many  little  girls  had 
the  delicious  thrill  of  getting  a  new  dress  fitted 
on. 

Thence  to  Croyden  Park.  Some  time  be- 
fore the  strike  this  immensely  big  place  had 


4.    THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

been  taken  over  by  the  Union.  I  do  not  know 
how  large  it  was  but  there  were  fields  and  fields, 
and  long  pathways  edged  with  trees.  It  was 
used  by  the  members  as  a  football  ground  and 
for  hurley  and  all  sorts  of  sports  and  games. 
But  this  time  the  fields  were  ringed  round  with 
men  and  women  watching  the  rows  and  rows  of 
strikers  who  were  in  the  fields,  marching  now 
to  the  right,  now  to  the  left  at  the  commands  of 
Captain  White,  who  stood  in  the  center,  a  tall 
soldierly  figure  blowing  a  whistle  and  gesticu- 
lating with  great  fervor. 

Back  and  forth,  right  and  left  they  marched 
with  never  a  moment's  rest;  then  round  and 
round  the  fields  they  ran  at  the  double;  the 
Captain  now  at  the  head,  now  at  the  rear,  now 
in  the  center  shouting  commands  incessantly, 
sparing  himself  no  more  than  the  men.  I  re- 
member once  he  stopped  beside  my  father  and 
myself;  he  was  in  a  terrible  rage,  his  hands 
were  clenched  and  he  was  fairly  gnashing  his 
teeth.  He  had  given  a  signal  to  one  of  the 
columns  and  they  had  misinterpreted  it. 

"Easy  now,  Captain,"  said  my  father,  "re- 
member they  are  only  volunteers."  Captain 
White  turned  like  a  flash. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "And  aren't  they  great?" 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION     5 

And  he  forgot  his  rage  in  his  admiration  of  the 
men  of  a  few  weeks'  training.  He  gave  an  or- 
der, the  men  marched  past  and  at  a  given  place 
they  received  broom  handles  with  which  they 
practiced  rifle  drill. 

After  rifle  drill  came  the  line  up  for  the 
march  home.  We  waited  till  the  last  row  was 
filing  past  and  then  fell  in  and  marched  back 
to  the  city  with  the  Irish  Citizen  Army.  It 
was  exhilarating.  At  no  period  could  I  see 
the  first  part  of  the  Army.  The  men  and  boys 
were  whistling  tunes  to  serve  them  in  lieu  of 
bands.  On  they  swung  to  Beresford  Place, 
where  they  lined  up  in  front  of  Liberty  Hall. 
Jim  Larkin  and  my  father  spoke  to  them  from 
the  windows.  When  one  man  called  out, 
"We'll  stick  by  you  to  the  end,"  he  was  loudly 
and  heartily  cheered.  Captain  White  gave 
the  order  of  dismissal  and  the  men  broke  ranks 
but  did  not  go  away.  When  they  were  not 
drilling,  or  sleeping,  or  eating,  they  thronged 
round  Liberty  Hall,  attesting  that  "where 
the  heart  lieth  there  turneth  the  feet." 

When  the  strike  was  over  and  the  men  had 
won  the  right  to  organize,  the  membership  of 
the  Irish  Citizen  Army  dwindled  rapidly. 
When  one  takes  into  consideration  the  arduous 


6    THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

work  and  the  long  hours  that  comprised  the 
daily  round  of  these  men,  the  wonder  was  that 
there  were  so  many  of  them  willing  to  meet 
after  working  hours  to  be  drilled  into  perfect 
soldiers.  But  they  knew  that  by  so  doing  they 
were,  in  the  words  of  my  father,  "signifying 
their  adhesion  to  the  principle  that  the  freedom 
of  a  people  must  in  the  last  analysis  rest  in  the 
hands  of  that  people — that  there  is  no  outside 
force  capable  of  enforcing  slavery  upon  a  peo- 
ple really  resolved  to  be  free,  and  valuing  free- 
dom more  than  life."  Also  that  "The  Irish 
Citizen  Army  in  its  constitution  pledges  its 
members  to  fight  for  a  Republican  Freedom 
in  Ireland.  Its  members  are,  therefore,  of  the 
number  who  believe  that  at  the  call  of  duty 
they  may  have  to  lay  down  their  lives  for  Ire- 
land, and  have  so  trained  themselves  that  at 
the  worst  the  laying  down  of  their  lives  shall 
constitute  the  starting  point  of  another  glori- 
ous tradition — a  tradition  that  will  keep  alive 
the  soul  of  the  nation."  And  this  was  the 
knowledge  that  lightened  all  the  labor  of  drill- 
ing and  soldiering. 

I  was  present  at  a  lecture  given  to  them  by 
their  Commandant,  James  Connolly.  It  was 
on  the  art  of  street  fighting.     I  remember  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION    7 

close  attention  every  man  paid  to  the  lecture 
and  the  interest  they  displayed  in  the  diagrams 
drawn  on  the  board  the  better  to  explain  his 
meaning.  At  the  close  of  the  lecture  he  asked, 
"Are  there  any  questions  ?"  There  were  many 
questions,  all  of  them  to  the  effect,  whether  it 
would  not  be  better  to  do  it  this  way,  or  could 
we  not  get  better  results  that  way.  All  in 
deadly  earnestness,  thinking  only  on  how  the 
best  results  might  be  achieved  and  not  one  man 
commenting  on  the  danger  to  life  the  acts 
would  surely  entail.  That  one  would  have  to 
risk  death  was  taken  for  granted.  Their  one 
thought  was  how  to  get  the  most  work  done 
before  death  came. 

A  few  months  later  there  were  maneuvers 
between  one  company  of  the  Irish  Citizen 
Army  and  a  company  of  the  Irish  Volunteers. 
The  Irish  Volunteers  had  been  formed  after 
the  Irish  Citizen  Army  and  by  this  time  had 
spread  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  Ireland. 
While  the  Irish  Citizen  Army  admitted  none 
but  union  men  the  Irish  Volunteers  made  no 
such  distinction.  And  as  they  both  had  the 
one  ideal  of  a  Republican  Ireland  there  was 
much  friendly  rivalry  between  the  two  bodies. 
This  time  the  maneuvers  took  the  form  of  a 


8    THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

sham  battle,  which  took  place  at  Ticknock 
about  six  miles  outside  of  Dublin.  The  Irish 
Citizen  Army  won  the  day.  I  particularly  re- 
member that  afternoon.  My  father  came  into 
the  house,  tired  but  pleasantly  excited — he  had 
been  an  onlooker  at  the  sham  battle.  "I've 
discovered  a  great  military  man,"  he  said  in 
high  glee.  "The  way  he  handled  his  men  posi- 
tively amounted  to  genius.  Do  you  know  him 
— his  name  is  Mallin?" 

I  did  not  know  him  then.  I  met  him  later 
when  he  was  my  father's  Chief  of  Staff.  Dur- 
ing the  rising  he  was  Commandant  in  charge 
of  the  St.  Stephen's  Green  Division  of  the 
Army  of  the  Irish  Republic,  and  he  was  exe- 
cuted during  that  dreadful  time  following  the 
surrender  of  the  Irish  Republican  Army. 


II 


During  the  month  of  July,  1914,  I  was 
camping  out  on  the  Dublin  mountains.  The 
annual  convention  of  Na  Fianna  Eireann 
(Irish  National  Boy  Scouts)  had  just  been 
held,  and  I  was  a  delegate  to  it  from  the  Bel- 
fast Girls'  Branch,  of  which  I  was  the  presi- 
dent. On  the  Sunday  following  the  conven- 
tion we  were  still  camping  out;  but  were  suf- 
fering all  the  discomforts  of  blowy,  rainy, 
stormy  weather.  Madame  (the  Countess 
de  Markievicz)  had  a  cottage  beside  the 
field  where  we  were  encamped,  and  it  was 
thronged  with  us  all  that  Sunday.  Noth- 
ing would  tempt  us  out  in  the  field  that  night, 
and  we  kept  putting  off  the  retiring  time,  hour 
by  hour,  till  it  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock.  At 
that  time  we  had  just  taken  our  courage  in 
both  hands,  and  were  forcing  ourselves  to  go 
out  to  our  tents.  We  were  standing  near  the 
door  with  our  bedding  in  our  arms  when  some 
of  the  Fianna  boys  halloed  from  outside.     We 

9 


10  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

gladly  opened  the  door — another  excuse  for 
putting  off  the  evil  moment — and  about  half  a 
dozen  boys  came  in  to  the  cottage.  They  were 
in  great  spirits,  although  they  had  tramped 
some  miles  in  the  rain,  and  exhibited  strange 
looking  clubs  to  our  curious  eyes. 

"Guess  what  we've  been  doing  to-day,  Ma- 
dame," they  said,  but  with  an  expression  on 
their  faces  which  said,  "you'll  never  guess." 

"It's  too  much  trouble  to  guess,"  said  Ma- 
dame. "Tell  us  what  it  was  and  we  will  know 
all  the  quicker." 

"We've  been  helping  to  run  in  three  thous- 
and rifles." 

"Rifles — where — quick — tell  me  all  about  it. 
Quick." 

"At  Howth.  But  did  you  hear  nothing 
about  it?" 

"Nothing.     Tell  me  quick." 

"Did  you  not  hear  that  we  had  a  brush  with 
the  soldiers ;  and  that  some  were  shot  and  some 
were  killed?" 

"No — no.  Begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell 
us  the  whole  story." 

"Well,  during  the  week  we  were  told  to  re- 
port at  a  certain  place  to-day — that  there  was 
important  work  to  be  done.     This  morning  we 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  11 

met  as  we  were  told,  and  we  were  shown  these 
clubs.  They  were  to  be  all  the  arms  we  were 
to  have.  We  started  out  to  march  with  the 
Volunteers  to  Howth.  We  knew,  somehow  or 
other,  that  we  were  going  to  get  rifles  but  none 
of  us  knew  for  a  fact  how  we  were  going  to 
get  them.  As  we  marched  we  made  all  sorts 
of  guesses  as  to  how  the  rifles  were  coming. 
Of  course,  we  did  not  carry  the  clubs  in  our 
hands;  we  brought  them  with  us  in  the  trek 
cart.  But  for  a  few  others  we  were  the  only 
ones  who  knew  what  was  in  the  cart.  And 
do  you  know,  Madame,"  he  said  with  a  vet- 
eran's pride,  "we  marched  better  than  the  Vol- 
unteers." 

"When  we  came  near  Howth,"  said  another 
boy  as  he  took  up  the  story,  "two  chaps  came 
running  towards  us  and  told  us  to  come  on  at 
the  double.  The  Volunteers  were  rather  tired 
but  when  they  heard  the  word  'rifles'  they 
simply  raced.  When  we  arrived  at  the  harbor 
we  saw  the  rifles  being  unloaded  from  a  yacht. 
You  ought  to  have  heard  the  cheers  when  we 
saw  them!  Then  it  was  that  the  clubs  were 
distributed.  They  were  given  to  a  picked  body 
of  men  and  they  were  formed  across  the  en- 
trance to  the  pier.     They  were  to  use  the  clubs 


12  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

if  the  police  attempted  to  interfere  with  them. 
The  rifles  were  handed  out  to  the  men,  but 
there  were  more  rifles  than  men  so  some  had  to 
be  sent  into  the  city  in  automobiles.  Most  of 
the  ammunition  was  sent  into  the  city  in  auto- 
mobiles but  quite  a  lot  was  put  into  the  trek 
cart.     But  none  was  served  out  to  the  men." 

"That  was  a  nice  thing  to  do,"  said  the  first 
boy,  "to  give  rifles  and  no  ammunition.  And 
when  we  were  attacked  we  couldn't  shoot  back. 
We  had  a  fight  with  the  soldiers  and  the  police 
near  the  city.  And  when  the  soldiers  and  the 
police  attacked  us  and  might  have  taken  the 
trek  cart  from  us,  we  had  only  the  butts  of  our 
rifles  to  defend  it  with.  But  we  beat  them  off. 
Later  on,  though,  they  took  their  revenge  when 
they  shot  down  defenseless  women  and  chil- 
dren. They  just  knelt  down  in  the  middle  of 
Bachelor's  .Walk  and  fired  into  the  crowd.  I 
don't  know  how  many  were  killed — some  say 
five,  some  say  more." 

"But  you  brought  the  rifles  safe,"  said 
Madame. 

"The  whole  city  is  excited.  The  people  are 
walking  up  and  down  the  streets,  they  don't 
seem  to  think  that  thev  have  any  homes  to  go 
to." 


COUNTED    M  VRKIEVIETZ 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  13 

When  we  heard  that  we  wanted  to  dress  and 
go  down  to  Dublin.  We  wanted  a  share  of  the 
excitement,  if  we  had  not  had  any  share  in  the 
fight.  But  Madame  vetoed  that  suggestion 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  mooted.  We  had  to 
go  to  bed.  But  we  had  so  much  to  talk  about 
that  we  scarcely  noticed  the  sogging  wet  tent 
when  we  were  inside. 

The  next  morning  was  gloriously  fine.  We 
breakfasted  and  were  making  plans  to  go  into 
the  city  to  hear  some  more  about  yesterday's 
exploit.  Madame  had  already  cycled  in,  and 
we  were  left  to  our  own  devices.  We  had  not 
quite  finished  our  work  around  the  camp  when 
we  saw  a  taxi-cab  stopping  near  the  gate  that 
was  used  as  an  entrance  to  the  field.  As  we 
ran  towards  it  we  wondered  what  had  brought 
it  there.  Before  we  reached  it,  however,  one 
of  the  Fianna  captains  had  jumped  out  of  the 
taxi  and  was  coming  towards  us. 

"I  have  about  twenty  rifles  in  the  car,  and  I 
want  to  get  them  to  Madame's  cottage,"  he 
said.     "Will  you  help?" 

We  were  glad  of  the  opportunity.  We 
jumped  over  the  hedge  into  the  next  field  where 
there  were  no  houses,  and  had  the  rifles  handed 
to  us.     We  could  only  carry  two  at  a  time.  The 


U  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

captain  stood  at  the  car  on  the  lookout,  and 
also  handed  the  rifles  to  us.  We  carried  the 
rifles  down  to  the  window  back  of  Madame's 
cottage,  and  when  we  had  them  all  there  one  of 
us  went  inside  to  open  the  window  to  take  the 
rifles  from  the  other  girls  as  they  handed  them 
through.  We  were  delighted  to  handle  the 
arms. 

Later  on  one  of  the  neighbors  said  that  it 
was  wrong  to  leave  the  rifles  there.  "There  is 
a  retired  sergeant  of  the  police  who  lives  a  lit- 
tle way  up  the  road  and  he  wouldn't  be  above 
telling  about  them." 

This  rather  frightened  us.  If  the  police 
came  and  took  them  from  us,  what  could  we 
do?  I  decided  to  go  in  to  Dublin  and  go  to 
the  Volunteer  office  and  tell  them  about  the 
rifles.  When  I  had  told  about  the  rifles  two 
of  the  men  present  accompanied  me  back  to  the 
camp  to  take  the  rifles  from  there. 

We  set  off  in  another  taxi  and  arrived  at  the 
camp  before  there  was  any  sign  of  the  police 
becoming  active.  All  the  rifles  were  carried 
out  again  and  put  in  the  taxi.  When  they 
w^ere  all  in  it,  it  was  suggested  that  we  should 
get  into  the  taxi  and  sit  on  top  of  the  rifles. 
The  police  would  be  less  suspicious  of  a  taxi 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  15 

with  girls  in  it.  It  was  not  a  very  comfortable 
seat  that  we  had  on  that  trip  to  Dublin.  But 
the  rifles  were  saved.  When  we  got  back  to 
the  office  I  offered  to  sit  in  any  taxi  with  the 
rifles  if  they  thought  it  would  divert  attention. 
I  sat  on  quite  a  number  of  rifles  that  day.  And 
at  the  end  of  the  day  I  had  a  rifle  of  my  own. 

In  the  meantime,  the  bodies  of  those  who  had 
been  shot  by  the  soldiers  were  laid  out  and 
brought  to  the  Cathedral.  Preparations  were 
made  for  a  public  funeral  to  honor  the  victims 
of  English  soldiery  in  Ireland.  All  the  Vol- 
unteers were  to  march  in  honor  of  the  dead, 
and  the  local  trades  unions,  the  Irish  Citizen 
Army,  the  Cumann  na  mBan,  the  Fianna,  and 
as  many  of  the  citizens  of  Dublin  as  desired  to 
do  so.  The  Fintan  Lalor  Pipe  Band,  con- 
nected with  the  Irish  Transport  and  General 
Workers  Union,  were  to  play  the  Dead  March. 
And  there  was  to  be  a  firing  party  of  the  Irish 
Volunteers  who  were  to  use  the  rifles  that  had 
so  soon  been  the  cause  of  bloodshed. 

I  spent  all  the  day  of  the  funeral  making 
wreaths.  The  funeral  was  not  to  take  place 
till  the  evening  so  as  to  permit  all  who  wished 
to  attend  to  do  so.  The  Fianna  boys  went 
round  to  the  different  florists  asking  for  flow- 


16  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

ers  to  make  wreaths  to  place  on  the  graves  of 
the  dead.  And  they  were  richly  rewarded. 
Every  florist  they  went  to  gave  bunches  and 
bunches  of  their  best  flowers,  and  these  the 
boys  brought  to  Madame's  house.  Madame 
and  I,  and  two  or  three  other  girls,  worked  con- 
tinually all  during  the  afternoon  turning  the 
flowers  into  wreaths.  .When  we  had  finished 
we  had  seventeen  glorious  big  wreaths.  Just 
before  six  we  piled  into  an  automobile,  some 
of  the  boys  in  Gaelic  costume  stood  on  the  run- 
ning board.  The  saffron  and  green  of  the 
kilts  and  the  many  wreaths  made  quite  an  ar- 
tistic dash  of  color  when  we  arrived  at  Beres- 
ford  Place  to  have  our  place  assigned  to  us. 

The  bodies  of  the  five  victims  were  removed 
from  the  Cathedral  and  placed  in  the  hearses. 
Behind  each  one  walked  the  chief  mourners. 
Much  interest  was  aroused  by  the  sight  of  a 
soldier  in  the  English  uniform,  who  marched, 
weeping  openly,  after  one  of  the  hearses.  He 
had  joined  the  English  Army  and  had  prom- 
ised to  protect  the  English  King,  and  now  the 
soldiers  of  that  king  had  shot  and  killed  his 
innocent  defenseless  mother. 

Dublin  was  profoundly  moved  as  the  funer- 
al cortege  passed  through  the  city.     Thousands 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  17 

upon  thousands  marched  to  the  cemetery  after 
the  hearses,  and  thousands  more  lined  the 
streets.  They  were  attesting  their  sympathy 
with  the  families  of  the  dead,  and  their  realiza- 
tion that  England  still  intended  to  rule  Ireland 
with  the  rifle  and  the  bullet. 

The  firing  party,  as  they  marched  after  the 
hearses  with  their  rifles  reversed,  excited  much 
comment.  The  people  contrasted  the  differ- 
ence in  the  treatment  accorded  the  National- 
ists when  they  had  a  gun-running,  with  that 
accorded  the  Ulster  gun-runners.  And  they 
knew  once  more  that  England  would  kill  and 
destroy  them  rather  than  permit  them  to  have 
the  means  to  protect  their  lives  and  to  fight  for 
their  liberties. 

The  authorities  were  aware  of  the  feeling 
aroused  in  the  peojDle  by  the  killing  of  the  un- 
armed women  and  men,  and  to  prevent  any 
further  disturbance  they  confined  the  soldiers 
to  their  barracks  that  evening.  Still  the  feel- 
ing against  "The  King's  Own  Scottish  Border- 
ers" (the  regiment  that  had  done  the  shooting) 
ran  so  high  that  the  entire  regiment  was  se- 
cretly sent  away  from  Dublin. 


Ill 


About  one  week  later,  while  the  people  were 
still  incensed  at  the  shooting,  England  went  to 
war.  Almost  immediately  she  issued  an  ap- 
peal to  the  Irish  to  join  her  army.  Later  she 
appealed  to  them  to  avenge  the  shooting  of  the 
citizens  of  Catholic  Belgium.  Because  her 
memory  was  short,  or  perhaps  because  her  need 
was  so  great  she  chose  to  ignore  the  fact  that 
English  soldiers  had  but  shortly  shot  down 
and  killed  the  unarmed  citizens  of  Catholic 
Dublin.     But  Dublin  did  not  forget. 

The  Irish  Citizen  Army  distinguished  itself 
when  John  Redmond  and  Mr.  Asquith,  who 
was  then  Prime  Minister,  came  over  to  Dublin 
shortly  after  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  They 
came  to  hold  a  recruiting  meeting  in  the  Man- 
sion House.  It  was  supposed  to  be  a  public 
meeting  at  which  the  Prime  Minister  and  the 
Irish  Parliamentary  Leader  would  appeal  to 
the  citizens  of  Dublin  to  enlist  in  the  British 
Army ;  yet  no  one  was  let  in  without  a  card  of 

18 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  19 

admission.  A  cordon  of  soldiers  were  drawn 
across  both  ends  of  the  street  in  which  the 
Mansion  House  was  situated,  at  Nassau  Street 
and  at  St.  Stephen's  Green.  No  one  could 
pass  these  cordons  without  presenting  the  card 
and  being  subjected  to  a  close  scrutiny  by  the 
local  detectives.  This  was  to  make  sure  that 
no  objectionable  person  could  get  in  to  the 
meeting  and  make  a  row.  But  the  National- 
ists of  Dublin  had  no  intention  of  going  to  the 
meeting ;  there  was  to  be  another  one  that  would 
give  them  more  pleasure. 

A  monster  demonstration  had  been  decided 
upon  by  the  Irish  Citizen  Army  to  prove  to 
Mr.  Asquith,  and  through  him  to  England, 
that  the  mass  of  the  Dublin  people  were  against 
recruiting  for  the  British  Army.  They  mus- 
tered outside  of  Liberty  Hall.  The  speakers, 
amongst  whom  was  Sean  Mac  Dermott  who 
was  there  to  represent  the  Irish  Volunteers, 
were  on  a  lorry  guarded  by  members  of  the 
Irish  Citizen  Army  armed  with  rifles  and  fixed 
bayonets ;  a  squad  similarly  armed  guarded  the 
front  and  the  rear.  They  were  determined 
that  there  would  be  no  arrest  of  anti-recruiters 
that  night. 

They  marched  around  the  city,  the  crowd 


20  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

swelling  as  they  went,  and  they  stopped  at  the 
"Traitors'  Arch"  (the  popular  name  for  the 
Memorial  to  the  Irish  soldiers  who  fell  in  the 
Boer  War) ,  at  St.  Stephen's  Green,  two  blocks 
away  from  where  the  recruiting  meeting  was 
being  held.  As  speaker  after  speaker  de- 
nounced recruiting,  and  denounced  England, 
and  Redmond,  and  Asquith,  feeling  surged 
higher  and  higher  until  it  reached  a  climax 
when  James  Connolly  called  on  those  present 
to  declare  for  an  Irish  Republic.  Cheers 
burst  from  thousands  of  throats  and  a  forest  of 
hands  appeared  in  the  air  as  they  declared  for 
a  Republic.  We  were  told  afterwards  that 
the  recruiting  meeting  had  to  stop  till  the  anti- 
recruiters  stayed  their  cheering. 

The  armed  men  of  the  Irish  Citizen  Army 
resumed  the  march  first  to  make  sure  that  none 
would  be  molested.  Down  Grafton  Street 
they  went  and  halted  again  beside  the  old 
House  of  Parliament,  where  Jim  Larkin  called 
on  them  to  raise  their  right  hands  and  pledge 
themselves  never  to  join  the  British  Army. 
Every  one  present  did  so.  Then,  whistling 
and  singing  Nationalist  marching  tunes  and 
anti-recruiting  songs,  they  marched  back  to 
Liberty  Hall  and  dispersed.     As  a  result  of 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  21 

Asquith's  meeting,  or  because  of  the  Irish  Citi- 
zen Army  meeting,  only  six  men  joined  the 
British  Army  next  day. 

Midnight  mobilizations  were  a  feature  of  the 
Irish  Citizen  Army.  They  served  a  twofold 
purpose.  They  taught  the  men  to  be  ready 
whenever  called  upon,  and  were  a  great  source 
of  annoyance  to  the  police.  At  every  mobiliza- 
tion of  the  Irish  Citizen  Army  a  squad  of 
police  and  detectives  were  detailed  by  the  au- 
thorities to  follow  and  report  all  the  move- 
ments. One  midnight  the  men  mobilized  at 
Liberty  Hall;  they  were  divided  into  two 
bodies,  the  attacking  and  the  defending.  They 
marched  to  the  North  side  of  the  city,  one  body 
going  across  the  canal,  and  the  other  remain- 
ing behind  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  the  at- 
tackers. The  battle  lasted  two  hours.  It  was 
a  bitter  winter's  night  and  the  police  were  on 
duty  all  the  time  as  they  did  not  dare  to  leave, 
for  there  was  no  telling  what  the  Irish  Citizen 
Army  might  be  up  to. 

After  the  men  had  completed  their  evolu- 
tions around  the  bridge  they  formed  ranks  and 
marched  round  the  city,  the  police  following 
them.  They  stopped  at  Emmet  Hall,  Inchi- 
core,  for  refreshments.    There  they  had  a  song 


Illustrating  journey  from  Belfast  to  Leek. 

See  pages  54-71 

22 


AKO-AQH. 


;  10  UT  Hound 


Illustrating  the  journey  from  Dundalk  to  Dublin. 
See  pages  142-163 

23 


24  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

and  dance,  one  chap  remarking  that  the 
thought  of  the  "peelers"  (police)  and  the  "G 
men"  (detectives)  outside  in  the  cold  added  to 
the  enjoyment.  They  broke  up  about  six 
o'clock  a.  m.  and  marched  back  to  Liberty  Hall 
followed  by  the  disheartened,  miserable,  frozen 
police. 

There  was  another  midnight  mobilization 
later  on.  Announcements  were  made  publicly 
that  on  this  occasion  the  Irish  Citizen  Army 
would  attack  Dublin  Castle,  the  center  of  Eng- 
lish Government  in  Ireland  for  600  years.  The 
thought  of  such  a  deed  never  fails  to  fire  the 
imagination  of  an  Irish  Nationalist.  A  favor- 
ite phrase  of  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Irish 
Citizen  Army,  Commandant  Sean  Connolly, 
was,  "One  more  rush,  boys,  and  the  Castle  is 
ours."  He  was  in  command  of  the  body  that 
attacked  the  Castle  on  Easter  Monday.  It 
was  while  calling  on  his  men  to  rush  the  Castle 
that  he  received  a  bullet  through  his  brain, 
thus  achieving  his  lifelong  dream  of  dying  for 
Ireland  while  attacking  the  Castle. 

One  other  mobilization  which  took  place  at 
midnight  some  time  before  the  Rising  was  a 
disappointment,  perhaps  because  it  was  un- 
official.   One  of  the  Irish  Citizen  Army  men 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  25 

heard  that  a  number  of  rifles  were  stored  in  a 
place  near  Finglass.  He  knew  the  where- 
abouts and  whispered  the  news  amongst  his 
comrades.  A  number  of  them  decided  to  make 
a  raid  on  the  place  and  capture  the  rifles. 
They  started  out  at  midnight,  marched  twenty 
miles  before  morning,  but,  unfortunately,  the 
rifles  had  been  removed  before  they  arrived. 
They  were  disappointed  but  not  downhearted ; 
such  things  they  considered  part  of  the  day's 
work. 

They  had  another  disappointment  which  was 
more  amusing,  at  least  our  men  could  laugh 
at  it  when  a  few  days  were  past.  There  was 
in  Dublin  a  body  of  men  called  the  Home  De- 
fense Corps.  They  wore  a  greenish  gray  uni- 
form and  on  then  sleeves  an  armlet  with  the 
letters  "G.  R."  in  red — abbreviations  for 
Georgius  Rex.  They  were  called  the  "Gor- 
geous Wrecks"  by  the  Dubliners.  They  were 
mainly  men  past  the  military  age  who  had 
registered  their  willingness  to  fight  the  Ger- 
mans when  they  invaded  England,  Scotland, 
or  Ireland.  These  men  paraded  the  streets  of 
Dublin  making  a  fine  show  with  their  uniforms 
and  rifles,  especially  the  rifles.  Some  of  the 
Irish  Citizen  Army  thought  those    rifles    too 


26  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

good  to  be  left  in  the  hands  of  "those  old  ones" 
and  followed  them  on  a  march  to  find  out  where 
the  rifles  were  kept.  When  our  men  came 
back  they  gathered  a  number  of  their  friends 
together;  after  a  short  talk  away  they  went 
for  the  rifles.  It  was  done  in  quite  a  military 
manner;  sentries  and  pickets  were  placed,  the 
building  surrounded  and  entered.  Several 
made  their  way  to  the  room  where  the  rifles 
were  kept  and  opened  the  windows  to  hand  the 
rifles  to  the  eager  hands  outside.  Their  plan 
was  to  march  home  with  them  quite  openly  as 
if  returning  from  a  route  march. 

The  leader  of  the  band  was  well  known  for 
his  lurid  and  swift  flow  of  language.  Suddenly 
bursting  out,  he  surpassed  all  his  previous  ef- 
forts and  completely  staggered  the  men 
around  him — they  beheld  him  examining  one 
of  the  rifles.  It  was  complete  in  every  detail, 
just  like  an  army  rifle,  but  on  lifting  it  it  was 
easy  to  know  that  it  was  a  very  clever  imita- 
tion. The  men  were  heartbroken  and  dis- 
gusted, but  they  brought  several  of  the  rifles 
away  with  them  to  show  their  officers  what  the 
"Gorgeous  Wrecks"  were  going  to  fight  the 
Germans  with.    During  a  raid  by  the  Dublin 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  27 

police  in  a  well-known  house  one  of  these  rifles 
was  taken  away  by  them.  How  long  it  took 
them  to  realize  its  uselessness  we  do  not  know 
as  it  was  never  returned. 


IV 


Towakds  the  end  of  1915  the  hearts  of  the 
Irish  Citizen  Army  beat  high,  when  they  were 
summoned  one  night  for  special  business.  One 
by  one  they  were  called  into  a  room  where 
their  Commandant,  James  Connolly,  and  his 
Chief  of  Staff,  Michael  Mallin,  were  seated  at 
a  table.  They  were  bound  on  their  word  not 
to  reveal  anything  they  should  hear  until  the 
time  came.  Something  like  the  following  con- 
versation took  place: 

11  Are  you  willing  to  fight  for  Ireland?" 

"Yes." 

"It  might  mean  your  death." 

"No  matter." 

"Are  you  ready  to  fight  to-morrow  if 
asked?" 

"Whenever  I'm  wanted." 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  fight  with  the 
few  arms  we've  got?" 

"Why  wait?     England  can  get  millions  to 


our  one." 


28 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  29 

"It  might  mean  a  massacre." 

"In  God's  name  let  us  fight,  we've  been 
waiting  long  enough." 

"The  Irish  Volunteers  might  not  come  out 
with  us.    Are  you  still  ready?" 

"What  matter?  We  can  put  up  a  good 
fight." 

"Then  in  God's  name  hold  yourself  ready. 
The  Day  is  very  near." 

To  the  eternal  credit  of  the  Irish  Citizen 
Army  be  it  recorded  that  only  one  man  shirked 
that  night. 

Then  on  top  of  this  glorious  happening  came 
the  attempted  raid  on  Liberty  Hall  by  the 
police.  That  morning  I  was  in  the  office  with 
my  father  when  a  man  came  from  the  printer's 
shop  and  said,  "Mr.  Connolly,  you're  wanted 
downstairs."  My  father  went  downstairs. 
About  five  minutes  later  he  came  into  the  office 
again,  took  down  a  carbine,  loaded  it  and  filled 
his  pockets  with  cartridges. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.  "Can  I  do  any- 
thing?" 

"Stay  here,  I'll  need  you,"  said  my  father 
and  he  left  the  office  again.  He  was  gone 
about  five  minutes  when  the  door  was  banged 


30  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

open  and  the  Countess  de  Markievicz  burst 
into  the  office. 

"Where's  Mr.  Connolly?"  she  demanded  ex- 
citedly. "Where's  Mr.  Connolly?  They're 
raiding  the  Gaelic  press — the  place  is  sur- 
rounded with  soldiers." 

"He  left  here  five  minutes  ago,"  I  said.  "He 
took  his  carbine  with  him  and  told  me  to  re- 
main here  as  he  would  need  me." 

She  ran  out  again.  In  a  few  minutes  I 
heard  her  and  my  father  coming  back  along  the 
corridor.  She  was  talking  excitedly  and  my 
father  was  laughing. 

They  came  into  the  office — he  took  down  a 
sheaf  of  papers  and  commenced  signing  them. 
They  called  for  instant  mobilization  of  the 
Irish  Citizen  Army.  They  were  to  report  at 
Liberty  Hall  with  full  equipment  at  once. 

"Well,  Nora,"  said  my  father.  "It  looks  as 
if  we  were  in  for  it  and  as  if  they  were  going 
to  force  our  hands.  Fill  up  these  orders  as  I 
sign  them.    I  want  two  hundred  and  fifty." 

I  busied  myself  filling  in  these  orders.  The 
Countess  began  to  help  me — suddenly  she 
stopped  and  cried  out,  "But,  Mr.  Connolly,  I 
haven't  my  pistol  on  me." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  31 

"Never  mind,  Madame,"  said  my  father. 
"We'll  give  you  one." 

"Give  it  to  me  now,"  she  said.  "So  my 
mind  will  be  easy." 

She  was  given  a  large  Mauser  pistol.  Just 
then  a  picket  came  running  in.  He  saluted 
and  said,  "They've  left  the  barracks,  sir."  He 
was  referring  to  the  police.  A  line  of  our 
pickets  had  been  stationed  reaching  from  the 
barracks  to  Liberty  Hall;  their  duty  was  to 
report  any  move  they  might  see  made  by  the 
police.  In  that  way  no  sooner  had  a  body  of 
police  left  the  barracks  than  word  was  sent 
along  the  line  and  in  less  than  three  minutes 
Liberty  Hall  was  aware  of  it. 

"Now,  Madame,"  said  my  father  when  the 
picket  had  gone.  "Come  along,  we'll  be  ready 
for  them.  Finish  those,  Nora,  and  come  down 
to  me  with  them." 

I  finished  them  and  went  down  to  the  Co- 
operative shop.  Behind  the  counter  stood  my 
father  with  his  carbine  laid  along  it;  beside 
him  Madame,  and  outside  the  counter  was 
Miss  Moloney  taking  the  safety  catch  from  off 
her  automatic.  I  gave  the  batch  of  orders  to 
my  father ;  he  called  one  of  the  men  who  stood 
in  the  doorway,  and  said,  "Get  these  around  at 


32  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

once."  The  man  saluted  and  went  away.  Just 
then  another  picket  came  in  and  said,  "They 
will  be  here  in  a  minute,  sir,  they've  just 
crossed  the  bridge." 

"Very  well,"  said  my  father,  and  the  men 
went  away. 

Miss  Moloney  then  told  me  that  some  police- 
men had  come  in  and  had  attempted  to  search 
the  store,  and  that  she  had  sent  word  to  Mr. 
Connolly  through  the  men  in  the  printing  shop, 
which  was  back  of  the  Cooperative  shop;  and 
then  busied  herself  resisting  the  search.  One 
policeman  had  a  batch  of  papers  in  his  hands 
when  my  father  came  in.  He  saw  at  once  what 
was  going  forward,  drew  his  automatic  pistol, 
pointed  it  at  the  policeman  and  said: 

"Drop  them  or  I'll  drop  you." 

The  policeman  dropped  them.  My  father 
then  asked  what  he  wanted.  He  said  they  had 
come  to  confiscate  any  copies  of  The  Gael,  The 
Gaelic  Athlete,  Honesty  or  The  Spark  that 
might  be  on, the  premises. 

"Have  you  a  search  warrant?"  asked  my 
father.  This  was  a  bluff,  because  under  the 
Defense  of  the  Realm  Act  any  house  may  be 
searched  on  suspicion;  but  it  worked;  the  po- 
liceman said  he  had  none. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  33 

"Go  and  get  one/'  said  my  father,  "or  you'll 
not  search  here." 

The  police  went  away ;  and  it  was  then  that 
my  father  had  come  back  to  the  office  to  sign 
the  mobilization  papers. 

Shortly  afterwards  there  came  into  the  shop 
an  Inspector  of  the  police,  four  plain-clothes 
men  and  two  policemen  in  uniform.  I  was  be- 
hind the  counter  at  this  time. 

"I  am  Inspector  Banning,"  said  the  Inspec- 
tor. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  my  father. 

"We  have  come  to  search  for,  and  confiscate 
any,  of  the  suppressed  papers  we  may  find 
here." 

"Where's  your  warrant?"  asked  my  father. 

"I  have  it  here,"  said  the  Inspector. 

"Read  it,"  said  my  father. 

The  Inspector  read  the  warrant — it  was  to 
the  effect  that  all  shops  and  newsvendors  were 
to  be  searched,  and  all  copies  of  the  suppressed 
newspapers  confiscated. 

"Well,"  said  my  father  when  the  Inspector 
had  finished  reading.  "This  is  the  shop  up  to 
this  door," — pointing  to  one  behind  him, — 
"beyond  this  door  is  Liberty  Hall,  and  through 


34  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

this  door  you  will  not  go.  Go  ahead  and 
search." 

"We  have  no  desire  to  enter  Liberty  Hall," 
said  the  Inspector. 

"I  don't  doubt  you,"  said  my  father,  whereat 
we  all  grinned. 

At  an  order  from  the  Inspector  one  of  the 
policemen  began  to  search  around  the  place 
where  the  papers  were  kept.  He  looked  at  my 
father  standing  in  the  doorway  with  his  car- 
bine, and  for  a  moment  we  thought  he  was 
going  to  rush  him.  Perhaps  visions  of  stripes 
danced  before  him;  but,  at  an  order  from  his 
superior  he  went  on  with  his  work.  It  was  a 
good  thing  for  him  that  he  did  so,  as  there  were 
the  best  of  shots  present,  with  less  than  ten 
paces  between  him  and  them. 

"There  is  nothing  here,"  he  said  at  last  to 
the  Inspector.  (We  had  made  sure  there  would 
not  be.)     And  then  they  all  left  the  shop. 

In  the  meantime,  a  series  of  strange  sights 
were  to  be  seen  all  over  the  city.  The  mobili- 
zation orders  had  gone  forth  and  the  men  were 
answering  them.  Women  hi  the  fashionable 
shopping  districts  were  startled  by  the  sight  of 
men,  with  their  faces  still  grimed  with  the  dust 
of  their  work,  tearing  along  at  a  breakneck 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  35 

speed,  a  rifle  in  one  hand  and  a  bandolier  in  the 
other. 

Out  from  the  ships  where  they  were  work- 
ing; from  the  docks;  out  of  the  factories;  in 
from  the  streets, — racing,  panting,  with  eager 
faces  and  joyful  eyes  they  trooped  into  Liberty 
Hall.  Joyful  because  they  believed  the  call 
had  come  at  last. 

No  obstacle  was  great  enough  to  prevent 
their  answering  the  order.  One  batch  were 
working  in  a  yard  overlooking  a  canal.  A  man 
appeared  at  the  door,  whistled  to  one  of  the 
men  and  gave  him  a  sign. 

"Come  on,  bo}'S,  we're  needed,"  cried  one 
and  made  for  the  door.  The  foreman,  think- 
ing it  was  a  strike,  closed  the  door.  Nothing 
daunted  they  swarmed  the  walls,  jumped  into 
the  canal,  swam  across,  ran  to  their  homes  for 
their  rifles  and  equipment  and  arrived  at  Lib- 
erty Hall,  wet  and  happy.  Another  batch 
were  busy  with  a  concrete  column  and  had  just 
got  it  to  the  critical  period,  where  one  must  not 
stop  working  or  it  hardens  and  cannot  be  used* 
when  the  mobilizer  appeared  at  the  door  and 
gave  them  the  news.  Down  went  the  tools 
and  out  they  went  through  the  gate  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 


36  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

All  day  long  the  men  were  arriving  at 
Liberty  Hall.  Tense  excitement  prevailed 
amongst  the  crowds  that  came  thronging  out- 
side the  Hall.  A  guard  was  placed  at  the 
great  front  door,  another  at  the  head  of  the 
wide  staircase  and  the  rest  were  confined  to 
the  guard  room.  This  guard  room  had  a  great 
fascination  for  me.  The  men  were  sitting  on 
forms  around  an  open  fire;  ranged  along  the 
walls  were  their  rifles,  and  hanging  above  them 
their  bandoliers ;  at  the  butts  of  the  rifles  were 
their  haversacks  containing  the  rest  of  their 
equipment;  all  was  so  arranged  that  when  they 
received  an  order  each  man  would  be  armed 
and  equipped  within  a  minute,  and  there  would 
be  no  confusion  or  delay.  When  I  first  went 
in  the  men  were  singing,  with  great  gusto,  this 
Citizen  Army  marching  tune : 

We've  got  guns  and  ammunition,  we  know  how  to  use 

them  well, 
And  when  we  meet  the  Saxon  we'll  drive  them  all  to  Hell. 
AVe've  got  to  free  our  country,  and  avenge  all  those  who 
fell, 
And  our  cause  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory  to  old  Ireland, 
Glory,  glory  to  our  sireland, 
Glory  to  the  memory  of  those  who  fought  and  fell, 
And  we  still  keep  marching  on. 


1  IK»M  \~    i    (  LARKE 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  37 

I  knew  then  what  was  meant  by  sniffing  a 
battle.  I  did  not  want  to  leave  that  room. 
The  atmosphere  thrilled  me  so  that  I  regarded 
with  impatience  the  men  and  women  who  were 
going  about  the  Hall  attending  to  the  regular 
business  of  the  Union,  and  not  in  the  least 
perturbed  by  all  the  military  display.  "Busi- 
ness as  usual,"  one  chap  remarked  to  me  as  I 
stood  watching  them  all. 

I  did  not  stand  long,  for  a  Citizen  Army 
man  came  to  me  and  said,  "You're  wanted  in 
No.  7  by  Mr.  Connolly."  No.  7  was  my  fath- 
er's office.  When  I  got  there  my  father  said, 
"Nora,  I  have  a  carbine  up  at  Surrey  House 
and  a  bandolier.  It  is  in  my  room."  He  then 
told  me  where.  "I  want  you  to  get  one  of  the 
scouts,  who  are  always  at  Madame's  house,  to 
put  the  bandolier  on  and  over  it  my  heavy 
overcoat.  Tell  him  to  swing  the  rifle  over  his 
shoulder  and  come  down  here  with  it  as  if  he 
were  mobilizing.  Get  him  here  as  soon  as  you 
can.    I'll  be  staying  here  all  night,"  he  added. 

I  started  off  immediately  for  Rathmines 
where  Surrey  House,  Countess  de  Markie- 
vicz's  residence,  is  situated.  On  my  way  I  met 
one  of  the  scouts  who  was  going  there.  When 
I  told  him  my  errand  he  offered  to  be  the  one 


38  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

to  bring  the  things  back  to  Liberty  Hall. 
When  we  reached  the  house,  I  went  to  the 
room,  found  the  things  which  my  father  wanted 
and  brought  them  down  to  the  scout.  He  had 
just  put  them  on  when  Madame  called  from 
the  kitchen  and  asked  me  to  have  some  tea. 
Of  course  I  said  I  would  have  some.  While  I 
was  waiting  to  be  served  she  said  to  me,  "What 
do  you  think  is  going  to  happen?  I  am  going 
down  to  Liberty  Hall  immediately  to  take  my 
turn  of  standing  guard.  By-the-way,  what  do 
you  think  of  my  uniform?" 

She  stepped  out  into  the  light  where  I  could 
get  a  good  view  of  her.  She  had  on  a  dark 
green  woolen  blouse  trimmed  with  brass  but- 
tons, dark  green  tweed  knee  breeches,  black 
stockings  and  high  heavy  boots.  As  she  stood 
she  was  a  good  advertisement  for  a  small  arms 
factory.  Around  her  waist  was  a  cartridge 
belt,  suspended  from  it  on  one  side  was  a  small 
automatic  pistol,  and  on  the  other  a  convertible 
Mauser  pistol-rifle.  Hanging  from  one  shoul- 
der was  a  bandolier  containing  the  cartridges 
for  the  Mauser,  and  from  the  other  was  a 
haversack  of  brown  canvas  and  leather  which 
she  had  bought  from  a  man,  who  had  got  it 
from  a  soldier,  who  in  turn  had  brought  it 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  39 

back  from  the  front;  originally  it  had  belonged 
to  a  German  soldier.  I  admired  her  whole 
outfit  immensely.  She  was  a  fine  military 
figure. 

"You  look  like  a  real  soldier,  Madame,"  I 
said,  and  she  was  as  pleased  as  if  she  had  re- 
ceived the  greatest  compliment. 

"What  is  your  uniform  like?"  she  asked. 

"Somewhat  similar,5'  I  answered.  "Only  I 
have  puttees  and  my  boots  have  plenty  of  nails 
in  the  soles.  I  intend  wearing  my  scout  blouse 
and  hat." 

"This  will  be  my  hat,"  she  said  and  showed 
me  a  black  velour  hat  with  a  heavy  trimming 
of  coque  feathers.  When  she  put  it  on  she 
looked  like  a  Field  Marshal;  it  was  her  best 
hat. 

"What  arms  have  you?"  she  then  asked. 

"A  .32  revolver  and  a  Howth  rifle." 

"Have  you  ammunition  for  them?" 

"Some.     Perhaps  enough." 

I  then  turned  to  the  scout  who  was  to  carry 
my  father's  rifle  and  bandolier  to  Liberty 
Hall,  and  said,  "We'd  better  go  now."  Say- 
ing "Slan  libh"  ("Health  with  ye")  we  left 
the  room.  On  our  way  to  the  door  we  heard 
a  heavy  rap  at  it.     I  ran  forward  and  opened 


40  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

it.  Judge  of  my  surprise  to  see  two  detectives 
standing  outside. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 

"The  Countess  de  Markievicz." 

"Wait,"  I  said  and  closed  the  door. 

Running  back  to  the  room  I  said,  "Madame* 
there  are  two  detectives  at  the  door.  They  say 
they  want  you." 

All  the  boys  looked  to  their  revolvers,  and 
the  boy  who  had  my  father's  rifle  said,  "I  hope 
I'll  be  able  to  get  these  down  to  Mr.  Connolly." 

Madame  went  into  the  hall  and  lit  a  small 
glimmer  of  light.  The  boys  remained  in  the 
darkened  background,  and  I  opened  the  door. 

The  detectives  came  just  inside  of  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  asked 
Madame. 

"We  have  an  order  to  serve  on  you, 
Madame,"  said  one  of  them. 

"What  is  it  about?"  asked  Madame. 

"It  is  an  order  under  one  of  the  regulations 
of  the  Defense  of  the  Realm  Act,  prohibiting 
you  from  entering  that  part  of  Ireland  called 
Kerry." 

"Well,"  said  Madame,  "Is  that  to  prevent 
me  from  addressing  the  meeting  to-morrow 
night  in  Tralee?"    Madame  was  advertised  to 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  41 

speak  at  a  meeting  to  organize  a  company  of 
boy  scouts  the  following  day  in  the  town  of 
Tralee,  County  Kerry. 

"I  don't  know,  Madame,"  he  answered. 

"What  will  happen  to  me  if  I  refuse  to  obey 
that  order  and  go  dowrn  to  Kerry  to-morrow  ?" 
asked  Madame.    "Will  I  be  shot?" 

"Ah,  now,  Madame,  who'd  want  to  shoot 
you?  You  wouldn't  want  to  shoot  one  of  us, 
would  you,  Madame?"  said  the  detective  who 
was  doing  all  the  talking. 

"But  I  would,"  cried  Madame.  "I'm  quite 
prepared  to  shoot  and  be  shot  at." 

"Ah,  now,  Madame,  you  don't  mean  that. 
None  of  us  want  to  die  yet:  we  all  want  to 
live  a  little  longer." 

"If  you  want  to  live  a  little  longer,"  said  a 
voice  from  out  of  the  darkness,  "you'd  better 
not  be  coming  here.  We're  none  of  us  very 
fond  of  you,  and  you  make  fine  big  targets." 

"We'll  be  going  now,  Madame,"  said  the 
detective.  As  he  stepped  out  through  the  door 
he  turned  and  said,  "You'll  not  be  thinking  of 
going  to  Kerry,  Madame,  will  you?" 

"Good-by,"  said  Madame  cordially.  "Re- 
member, I'm  quite  prepared  to  shoot  and  be 
shot  at." 


42  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Well,"  she  said  as  the  door  closed.  "What 
am  I  going  to  do  now  ?  I  want  to  go  and  defy 
them.  How  can  I  do  it?  I'm  so  well  known — 
but  I'm  under  orders.  Perhaps  Mr.  Connolly 
wouldn't  allow  me  to  go  anyway.  I'll  go  down 
and  talk  it  over  with  him.  Wait  a  minute, 
Nora,  and  we'll  all  be  down  together." 

On  our  way  down  a  brilliant  idea,  as  I 
thought,  struck  me.  "Write  your  speech  out, 
Madame,  make  it  as  seditious  and  treasonable 
as  possible.  Send  some  one  down  to  Tralee  to 
deliver  it  for  you  at  the  meeting.  In  that  way, 
the  meeting  will  be  held,  your  speech  delivered, 
and  the  authorities  will  not  be  able  to  arrest 
you  on  that  charge." 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  that  and  who  I  could 
send  down.  But  I'll  decide  nothing  till  I  see 
Mr.  Connolly,"  said  Madame. 

We  met  my  father  at  the  top  of  the  stair- 
case in  Liberty  Hall. 

"What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Connolly,"  cried 
Madame.  "I've  received  an  internment  order 
or  rather  an  order  prohibiting  me  from  going 
down  to  Tralee.  What  am  I  going  to  do  about 
it?    Shall  I  go  or  shall  I  obey  the  order." 

"Did  you  bring  the  carbine  and  bandolier?" 
asked  my  father  turning  to  me. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  43 

"Yes,"  I  answered.    "Harry  has  them." 

"No,  Madame,"  said  my  father.  "You  can- 
not go  down  to  Tralee.  If  you  make  the  at- 
tempt you  wrill  probably  be  arrested  at  some 
small  station  on  the  way,  and  sentenced  to 
some  months  in  jail.  You  are  too  valuable 
to  be  a  prisoner  at  a  time  like  this;  I'll  have 
need  of  you.  If  the  authorities  follow  up  their 
action  of  to-day  we  may  be  in  the  middle  of 
things  to-night  or  to-morrow ;  who  knows  ?  No, 
you  must  stay  here.  You  are  more  important 
than  the  meeting." 

"Should  I  send  some  one  in  my  place,  then?" 
asked  Madame. 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide,  though  I  think 
it  would  be  a  good  thing." 

"Whom  will  I  send?"  asked  Madame. 

"Send  some  one  who  cannot  be  victimized  in 
case  our  hands  are  not  forced ;  some  one  who  is 
already  victimized.  Why  not  ask  Maire 
Perolz?" 

"The  very  girl!"  said  Madame.  "You  can 
always  pick  out  the  right  person." 

"You  had  better  get  hold  of  Perolz,  then," 
said  my  father.  "Tell  her  what  you  want  her 
to  do  and  write  out  your  speech.  We'll  relieve 
you  of  guard  duty  to-night,  and  promise  you 


U  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

that  if  things  look  lively  we'll  get  word  to  you 
in  time." 

Madame  left  the  Hall,  and  when  I  returned 
to  her  house  a  few  hours  later,  she  was  busy 
writing  out  her  speech.  I  sat  down  in  the 
room  and  from  time  to  time  she  read  me  out 
parts  of  it.  It  certainly  was  seditious  and 
treasonable.  She  wrote  on  for  quite  some  time 
after  that  and  then  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction 
she  said,  "I  have  it  finished.  Perolz  will  come 
for  it  in  the  morning — she  will  take  an  early 
train." 

Perolz  had  come  and  gone  before  I  came 
down  in  the  morning,  but  when  she  returned 
a  few  days  later,  I  heard  the  whole  stoiy  of 
her  adventure,  told  in  her  own  inimitable  way. 

She  had  traveled  down  to  Limerick  Junc- 
tion accompanied  by  a  very  polite,  attentive 
detective,  whose  company  she  dispensed  with 
there  by  leaving  the  carriage  she  was  in  at  the 
very  last  minute,  and  taking  a  seat  in  another. 
Hers  was  not  a  case  of  impersonation,  for  the 
Countess  de  Markievicz  is  very  tall  and  rather 
fair  while  Maire  Perolz  is  of  medium  height 
and  has  red  hair.  She  is  very  quick-witted  and 
nimble  of  her  tongue,  never  at  a  loss  for  what 
to  do  or  for  what  to  say. 


-     POBLACHT  MA  H  EIRE  ANN.    v 

TIE  PEWISIONAl  &0mNMMT 

IRISH    RiPUBLIC 

to  the  mm  sr  ikhand. 

IRISHMEN  AHli  IRISHWOMAN  •     wnaawo    >od                       id  generations 

firon  whiob  she  receives  her  f    I    -    -  /©d  Ireland.  Uu                   *jmraoo#- 

h*r  children  10  hi-  • 

Having  orgs*  u     m                                           •    . -/.ioriary 

or^or-salior..    the     r  military 

orKJinisatiii.*.  my   having  patiently 

perfei  ted  her  discipline.  I  m          .  r>.c*l 

•  i     ;he  now  -                      i                  •  a   a  Amcru* 

ar.d  D;   £*.  wit               o  I      "it-  s  ihc  first   u3  r.»;r   <>*n      irtnr/.rc    ^:m 
unkes  m  roll  i  en  fid 

We  declare  :r.L-  right  lot   .wr.cr..:v<p   if  Ireland,  and  lo 

.  o;  ->r  ir»-n  de   .  .                go  and  indefeasible,         i 

usurpation  oi  lhai  m<rit  .<j   .    -     ...  p<    ,  •                  -                                     .  bed  tne 

right,  nor  can  i  ever  h  icbon                        eople.     In 

every   genei  ition  Ihe  lri  I    people  cave   twrt.«1  in  tliona    i.eedom  and 

j,  ^o«r»r«»ip"»v .  -nx  ttrr  -         ngthi  past!  Aaad         .    .      •  .  .     ...      t  .  !  >  d  ti  m 

.ir-ns     Standing  bii  thai  .  e  faw 

of  tb«  world,  we  h«i  by  n .,  n.   state. 

.  and  wc  pledge  our  lives  ai     .  10  the  cause  of  its    - 
uf  its  welfare,  and  oi  its  exaltation 

Th«    Irish  Ri-puoiic  .s  rniit  <»s   to   ls  |   beret))  claims  the  allegiance  or  every 

Irishman  uid  Irishwoman.     Tb«  .     religious  and  •  ivil  liberty.  equal 

rights  and    equal  opportunities*  lCrf   declares   lis  resolve  to  pursue 

■     the  happiness  and  prosperity  .ol  the  «  &cd  ol  all  its  parts,  cherishing  all 

[     the  children  ef  the  nation  equally,  and  oblivion    of  the  differences  carefullj    fostered 

by  an  alien  government,  whtch  have  di%  .    nty  m  the  past 

Dnui  jar  arms  have  brought  the  opportum     r  .ment  :or  th(  •  itab  i  hment  of  a 

permanent  National  Governroer,       c  B  whole  people  or  Ireland  and 

elected  by  U)e  suffrages  oTalVber  men  and       era  the  Provisional  Government,  hereby 

constituted,  "Will  administer  th<  i  uurj    affairs  of  the  Republic  in  trust  for 

the  poopir. 

We  place  the  miueof  the  Irish  Repul  li  under  tha  protection  of  the  Most  Hi^h  God 
Ahov-  blessing  we  invok..  upen  our  anas,  and  *«  pray  that  no  one  who  serves  that 
cause  will  dishonour  it  by  .  owardke.  inhuzoanity,  oi  rapine  In  this  upreroe  hour 
the  Irish  nation  must,  by  its  v,;  >ur  and  dis<  iplir*  anc  by  the  readiness  of  ;>  children 
lo  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  c-.m/nw.  *o«i.  prove  itself  worthyofthe  august  destiny 
to  which  it  u  called  '  ' 

^»neJ     .M.     tlcf«*     .1    1IM     l^«.*«.naj     II Mrn| 

fc>  THOMAS  J    CLAJIKE. 

y.  »**    «ac    DU31MADA.        THOMAS    MacDONAGR. 

Jp  JAMES   CGp.'OLLY. 


THE  PROCLAMATION  OF  THE  PROVISIONAL  GOVERNMEN1    [SSI  ED   \I 
THE  G,  P.  <>.,  ON   MONDAY.  APRIL  24TH,  L917. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  45 

She  was  met  at  Tralee  station  by  a  guard 
of  honor  from  the  local  Cumann  na  mBan 
(women's  organization),  Irish  Volunteers, 
and  intending  boy  scouts.  They  had  never 
seen  the  Countess  de  Markievicz  and  conse- 
quently did  not  know  that  it  was  not  she  who 
had  arrived.  Although  Maire  told  me  that 
she  almost  lost  her  composure  when  she  heard 
one  of  the  girls  say,  "She  isn't  a  bit  like  her 
photograph." 

She  was  escorted  to  the  hotel.  When  she 
arrived  there  she  said  to  the  officers  of  the 
organization,  "I  am  not  Madame  Markievicz. 
She  received  an  order  last  night  prohibiting 
her  from  entering  Kerry.  Things  were  look- 
ing lively  in  Dublin  and  Madame  was  needed. 
She  wrote  out  her  speech  and  I  am  to  deliver 
it  for  her.  In  that  way  the  meeting  will  be 
held  and  Madame's  speech  will  be  delivered, 
and  Madame  will  still  be  able  to  do  useful 
work.  There  is  no  need  to  let  the  public  know 
till  to-night." 

The  officers  agreed  that  it  would  be  best  to 
keep  the  knowledge  of  the  non-arrival  of 
Madame  from  the  public  and  the  police.  Just 
then  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  came  to  the 
door  and  said,  "Madame,  there  are  two  police- 


46  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

men  downstairs  and  they  want  your  registra- 
tion form  at  once."  Under  the  Defense  of  the 
Realm  Act  every  one  entering  an  hotel,  or 
boarding  or  lodging  house  is  required  to  fill  in 
a  form  declaring  his  name,  address,  occupation, 
and  intended  destination.  This  rule  was  most 
rigidly  enforced  by  the  police  authorities. 

"Can't  they  wait  till  I  get  a  cup  of  tea?" 
asked  Maire. 

"No.  They  said  they  would  wait  and  take 
it  back  to  the  station  with  them." 

"Very  well,"  said  Maire.     "Give  it  to  me." 

She  filled  out  the  form  something  like  this, 
neglecting  the  minor  details. 

Name: — Maire  Perolz. 

Address: — No    fixed    address — vagrant. 

Age: — 20? 

Occupation : — None. 

Nationality : — Irish. 

She  then  gave  it  to  the  proprietor  who  took 
it  away.  From  the  window  they  watched  the 
policemen  carrying  it  to  the  police  station,  ap- 
parently very  much  absorbed  in  it.  They  re- 
turned shortly  and  asked  to  see  the  lad}'.  When 
they  came  in  to  the  room  they  still  carried  the 
registration  form. 

"You  haven't  filled  in  this  form  satisfactor- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  47 

ily,   Madame,"   said  one.     "You   must  have 
some  fixed  address  and  some  occupation." 

"No  indeed,"  said  Maire.  "I  live  on  my 
wits." 

"And  you  are  a  Russian  subject." 
"How  do  you  make  that  out,  in  the  name  of 
God?"  asked  Maire. 

"You  are  married  to  a  Russian  Count." 
"First  news  I've  heard  of  it,"  said  Maire. 
"Now  listen  here,  I've  filled  that  form  out  cor- 
rectly and  you'll  have  to  be  satisfied  with  it. 
I'll  not  fill  out  another." 

They  accepted  the  form  at  last.  That  night 
Maire  delivered  Madame's  speech,  told  why 
Madame  could  not  be  present,  then  added  a 
little  anti-recruiting  speech  of  her  own  which 
evoked  great  applause.  The  next  day  she  re- 
turned home  in  great  spirits  at  having  once 
more  helped  to  outwit  the  police. 


About  this  time  the  Executive  of  the  Cum- 
ann  na  mBan  (women's  organization)  in  Dub- 
lin were  having  trouble  in  procuring  First  Aid 
and  Hospital  supplies.  I  suggested  that  being 
a  Northerner  and  having  a  Northern  accent,  I 
could  probably  get  them  in  Belfast.  I  knew 
that  a  number  of  loyalist  nursing  corps  were  in 
existence  in  that  city,  and  thought  that  by  let- 
ting it  be  inferred  that  I  belonged  to  one  of 
them,  the  loyalist  shopkeepers  would  have  no 
hesitation  in  selling  me  the  supplies,  and  in  all 
probability  would  let  me  have  them  at  cost 
price.  And  that  is  exactly  what  happened.  I 
purchased  as  many  of  the  different  articles  as 
I  needed  and  at  less  than  half  the  price  paid  in 
Dublin. 

While  in  Dublin  I  had  visited  the  Employ- 
ment Bureau  in  the  Volunteer  Headquarters. 
Its  business  was  to  find  employment  for  Irish- 
men and  boys  who  were  liable  for  military  serv- 
ice.    Under  the  Military  Service  Act  every 

48 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION    49 

man  or  boy  over  eighteen,  residing  in  England 
or  Scotland  since  the  preceding  August,  was 
required  to  report  himself  for  service  in  the 
British  Army.  The  Bureau  found  employ- 
ment in  most  cases  for  those  who  preferred  to 
serve  in  the  Irish  Republican  Army  and  had 
come  to  Ireland  to  await  the  call.  Of  course,  it 
was  impossible  to  find  jobs  for  them  all;  but 
those  who  had  not  received  jobs  were  busy  on 
the  work  of  making  ammunition  and  hand 
grenades  for  the  Irish  Republican  Army.  The 
greater  number  of  them  had  to  camp  out  dur- 
ing the  miserable  months  of  February  and 
March,  in  the  Dublin  Mountains,  so  that  too 
great  a  drain  would  not  be  placed  on  their 
slender  resources. 

On  my  return  to  Belfast  at  a  meeting  of  tile 
Cumann  na  mBan  I  suggested  that  we  send 
hampers  of  foodstuffs  down  to  those  boys  and 
men  in  Dublin.  The  suggestion  was  taken  up 
with  great  gusto,  and  the  members  were  di- 
vided into  different  squads;  a  butter  squad,  a 
bacon  squad,  a  tea,  a  sugar,  oatmeal,  cheese, 
and  tinned  goods  squad;  and  they  were  to 
solicit  all  their  friends  for  these  articles.  They 
were  then  to  be  sent  on  to  the  different  camps 
in  Dublin  to  help  on  the  fight.    Since  we  had 


50  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

done  so  well  on  the  foodstuffs  I  thought  it 
would  be  as  well  to  ask  the  men  and  boys  in 
Belfast  for  cigarettes  and  tobacco.  I  set  about 
collecting  on  the  Saturday  on  which  we  in- 
tended sending  away  the  first  hamper  of  food. 
I  was  so  successful  that  I  was  unable  to  re- 
turn home  for  lunch  before  half-past  three. 

When  I  arrived  home  my  sister  met  me  at 
the  door  and  said  there  was  a  man  in  the  par- 
lor who  wanted  to  see  me,  and  that  he  had 
been  waiting  since  noon.  I  went  into  the  room 
and  saw  one  of  my  Dublin  friends. 

"Why,  hello,  Barney,"  I  said.  "What 
brings  you  here?" 

He  told  me  that  there  was  some  work  before 
me  and  that  he  had  the  instructions.  With 
this  he  handed  me  a  letter.  I  recognized  my 
father's  handwriting  on  the  envelope.  The  let- 
ter merely  said : 

"Dear  Nora,  The  bearer  will  tell  you  what  we  want 
you  to  do.     I  have  every  confidence  in  your  ability. 

"Your  father, 

"James  Connolly." 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  I  asked  turning  to 
Barney. 

"Liam  Mellowes  is  to  be  deported  to-mor- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION   51 

row  morning  to  England  and  we  are  to  go 
there  and  bring  him  back." 

"Sounds  like  a  big  job,"  I  said.  "What  are 
the  plans?" 

"These  are  some  of  them,"  he  answered 
showing  me  several  pages  closely  written. 
"Some  one  will  bring  the  final  instructions 
from  Dublin  to-night." 

The  plan  in  the  rough  was  that  the  messen- 
ger, being  on  the  first  glance  uncommonly 
like  Liam  Mellowes,  was  to  go  to  the  place 
where  he  was  interned  and  visit  him.  While 
he  was  visiting  he  was  to  change  clothes  with 
Liam  Mellowes  and  stay  behind,  while  Liam 
came  out  to  me.  We  were  then  to  make  all 
speed  to  the  station  and  lose  no  time  in  re- 
turning to  Dublin. 

Liam  Mellowes  had  received,  some  time  pre- 
viously, an  order  from  the  military  authorities 
to  leave  Ireland.  This  was  because  of  his  many 
activities  as  an  organizer  for  the  Irish  Volun- 
teers— as  the  order  had  it,  because  he  was 
prejudicial  to  recruiting.  He  refused  to  obey 
and  had  been  arrested.  He  wTas  now  to  be 
forcibly  deported.  As  Mellowes  was  abso- 
lutely essential  to  the  plans  for  the  Rising,  be- 
ing Officer  in  charge  of  the  operations  in  the 


52  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

West  of  Ireland,  the  attempt  to  bring  him 
back  from  England  was  decided  upon. 

While  waiting  for  the  messenger  to  bring 
the  final  instructions  from  Dublin  I  sent  out 
word  to  some  of  the  Cum  ami  na  mBan  girls 
that  I  should  like  to  see  them.  When  they 
came  I  told  them  that  I  had  received  an  order 
that  necessitated  my  going  to  Dublin ;  and  that 
I  should  not  be  able  to  assist  them  in  sending 
away  the  hampers.  I  gave  them  the  money 
that  I  had  collected  for  the  cigarettes  and  to- 
bacco, and  they  said  they  would  see  that  every- 
thing went  away  all  right.  It  was  with  great 
surprise  and  delight  that  the  "refugees,"  as 
we  called  them,  received  the  hampers  a  few 
days  later. 


VI 


After  the  girls  left  I  fell  to  studying  the 
instructions.  The  main  idea  was  to  go  in  as 
zig-zag  a  course  as  possible  to  our  objective. 
My  father  had  made  out  a  list  of  the  best  pos- 
sible places  to  break  our  journey.  On  one 
sheet  of  paper  in  Eamonn  Ceannt's  handwrit- 
ing continued  the  plan;  and  on  another,  in 
Sean  mac  Diarmuida's,  was  a  list  of  people 
with  their  addresses  in  England  or  Scotland, 
to  whom  we  could  go  for  safe  hiding,  if  we 
found  we  were  being  followed  by  detectives. 

Shortly  after  seven  that  evening  Miss  Mo- 
loney arrived  at  our  house.  She  brought  us 
a  message  from  Dublin.  It  was  to  the  effect 
that  it  was  not  yet  known  to  what  place  Liam 
Mellowes  was  to  be  deported,  but  we  were  to 
go  on  our  journey,  and  when  we  arrived  at 
Birmingham,  there  would  be  a  message  wait- 
ing us  there  with  the  desired  information.  All 
that  was  known  was  that  Liam  Mellowes  was 
to  be  deported  to  some  town  in  the  South  of 
England. 

53 


54  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

There  was  a  boat  leaving  for  Glasgow  that 
night  at  eleven  forty-five.  We  decided  to  go 
on  it;  it  was  called  the  theatrical  boat,  because 
it  was  on  this  boat  many  theatrical  companies 
left  Belfast;  we  thought  we  would  not  be  no- 
ticed among  the  throng.  I  was  to  ask  for  all 
the  tickets  at  the  railway  stations,  as  my  ac- 
cent is  not  easily  placed. 

On  Sunday  morning  I  went  up  on  deck  ex- 
pecting to  be  almost  the  first  one  there;  Bar- 
ney, however,  was  there  before  me.  He  said 
we  would  be  in  Glasgow  shortly.  I  went  be- 
low for  my  suitcase.  When  I  came  up  on  deck 
again  I  saw  that  we  were  nearer  shore  and  that 
we  were  slowing  up.  I  asked  a  steward  if  we 
should  be  off  soon. 

"No,"  he  said.  "We  are  slowing  up  here  to 
put  some  cattle  off." 

"Will  it  take  long?"  I  asked. 

"About  an  hour." 

"How  far  are  we  from  Glasgow?"  I  then 
asked. 

"Two  or  three  miles." 

"Can  we  get  off  here  instead  of  waiting?" 

"Nothing  to  prevent  you,"  he  said. 

So  Barney  and  I  picked  up  our  traps  and, 
as  soon  as  the  gangway  was  fixed  up  for  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  55 

cattle  to  disembark,  we  went  down  it  and  on  to 
the  quay. 

We  walked  along  as  if  we  had  been  born 
there,  although  as  a  matter  of  fact,  neither 
Barney  nor  I  had  been  in  that  place  before. 
After  a  few  minutes  we  came  to  a  street  with 
tramway  lines  on  it  and  decided  to  wait  for  a 
car.  We  boarded  the  first  car  that  came  along. 
After  riding  in  it  for  a  long  time  we  noticed 
that  instead  of  approaching  the  city  we  seemed 
to  be  going  farther  away  from  it.  We  left  the 
car  at  the  next  stop,  and  took  another  going 
in  the  opposite  direction,  and  after  riding  for 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  arrived  in  Glasgow. 
We  were  more  than  pleased  to  think  that  if 
the  police  had  noticed  us  when  we  went  on  the 
Glasgow  boat  at  Belfast,  and  had  sent  on  word 
for  the  Glasgow  police  to  watch  out  for  us,  the 
boat  would  arrive  without  us. 

Our  next  stop  was  to  be  Edinburgh.  We 
went  to  the  station  and  inquired  when  the 
Edinburgh  train  would  be  leaving.  There  was 
one  leaving  at  eleven  fifteen  that  would  arrive 
in  Edinburgh  some  time  about  one  o'clock. 
We  decided  to  go  by  it.  Then  we  remembered 
that  it  was  Sunday  and  that  we  had  not  been 
to  Mass;  also  that  if  we  went  by  that  train 


56  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

it  would  be  too  late  when  we  arrived  at  Edin- 
burgh to  attend.  It  was  not  quite  ten  o'clock 
then;  if  we  could  find  a  church  nearby,  we 
could  go  to  Mass  and  still  be  in  time  for  the 
train.  Rut  where  was  there  a  church  ?  "Look, 
Barney,"  I  cried  suddenly.  "Here's  an  Irish- 
looking  guard.  We'll  ask  him  to  direct  us." 
We  asked  him  and  he  told  us  that  there  was 
a  Catholic  church  five  minutes'  walk  away 
from  the  station,  and  directed  us  to  it.  It  took 
us  more  than  five  minutes  to  get  there,  but 
we  arrived  in  time  and  were  back  at  the  sta- 
tion before  the  Edinburgh  train  left. 

We  arrived  at  Edinburgh  about  one  o'clock. 
We  were  very  tired  as  we  had  not  slept  on  the 
boat;  and  we  were  hungry  for  we  had  not  eaten 
in  our  excitement  at  leaving  the  boat  before 
the  time.  Our  first  thought  was  to  find  a  place 
to  eat;  but  it  was  Sunday  in  Scotland  and  we 
found  no  place  open.  After  wandering  around 
for  some  time,  looking  all  about  us,  we  de- 
cided to  ask  a  policeman.  He  directed  us  to 
the  Waverley  Hotel,  where  we  were  given  a 
good  dinner.  And  when  we  told  the  waiter 
that  we  were  only  waiting  till  our  train  came 
due,  and  that  we  wanted  a  place  to  rest,  he 
told  us  that  we  could  stay  in  the  room  we  were 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  57 

in.  After  dinner  I  found  myself  nodding  and 
lay  down  on  the  couch.  I  must  have  fallen 
asleep  almost  instantly  for  it  was  dark  when 
I  awoke.  Barney  came  in  shortly  afterwards. 
He  had  been  looking  up  the  trains  he  said  and 
our  train  left  at  ten  o'clock.  It  was  about 
eight  o'clock.  We  had  something  more  to  eat 
and  left  the  hotel  to  go  to  the  railway  station. 

To  my  great  surprise  when  we  came  outside 
everything  was  dark.  Not  a  light  showed  from 
any  of  the  buildings,  or  from  the  street  cars. 
Cabs  and  motors  went  by,  and  only  for  the 
shouting  of  the  drivers  and  the  blowing  of  the 
motor-horns  we  would  have  been  run  down 
when  crossing  the  streets.  We  have  no  such 
war  regulation  of  darkness  in  Ireland.  We  ar- 
rived at  the  station  at  last.  We  had  to  go  down 
a  number  of  steps  to  get  to  the  gate,  and  if  it 
was  dark  in  the  streets  it  was  pitch  blackness 
down  there.  I  was  not  surprised  at  the  num- 
ber of  people  I  met  on  the  steps,  as  I  thought 
it  might  be  a  usual  rallying  place,  but  I  was 
surprised  to  hear  them  talking  in  whispers. 
We  went  down  till  we  came  to  the  gate — it 
was  closed  and  there  was  a  man  on  guard  at 
it. 

"Can  we  not  get  in?"  I  asked. 


58  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Carlisle." 

"It's  not  time  for  the  Carlisle  train  yet." 

"But  can't  we  go  in  and  take  oar  seats?"  I 
asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  and  after  that  I  could 
get  no  further  response. 

We  waited  awhile  at  the  gate.  I  noticed 
that  quite  a  few  were  given  the  same  answers 
although  they  were  not  going  to  the  same  place. 
More  time  passed  and  I  began  to  feel  anxious ; 
I  was  afraid  that  we  would  miss  the  train. 

"What  time  is  it  now?"  I  asked,  turning  to 
Barney.  As  he  could  not  see  in  the  dark  he 
lit  a  match.  Instantly,  as  with  one  voice,  every 
one  around  and  on  the  steps  shouted,  "Put 
out  that  light."     And  the  man  at  the  gate 

howled,    "What   the    H does    that   fool 

mean!"  We  were  more  than  surprised;  we 
did  not  know  why  we  could  not  light  a  match. 

Just  after  that  a  couple  of  soldiers  came 
towards  the  gate.  I  could  hear  the  rattle  of 
their  hob-nailed  boots  and  see  the  rifles  swung 
on  their  shoulders.  They  talked  with  the  man 
at  the  gate  for  a  few  minutes,  then  saying,  "All 
right,"  went  up  the  steps  again.  This  hap- 
pened more  than  once.    My  eyes  were  accus- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  59 

tomed  to  the  darkness  by  now,  and  I  could  see 
a  sergeant,  with  about  twenty  soldiers,  com- 
ing down  the  steps.  As  they  made  for  the 
gate  I  whispered  to  Barney,  "Go  close  and 
listen  to  what  the  guard  says  to  the  sergeant." 
He  went — and  as  the  sergeant  turned  away, 
came  back  to  me  and  picking  up  our  bags  said, 
"Come  on."  I  followed  without  asking  any 
questions.  When  we  were  out  on  the  street 
Barney  turned  to  me  and  said,  "The  guard 
told  the  sergeant  to  go  to  the  other  gate.  We'll 
go  to." 

We  followed  the  clacking  sound  of  the  sol- 
diers' boots  till  we  came  to  a  big  gate.  It  was 
evidently  the  gate  used  for  vehicles.  As  we 
entered  we  were  stopped  by  two  guards  who 
asked,  "Where  are  you  going?"  "To  Carlisle," 
I  answered.  They  waved  us  inside.  We 
walked  down  a  long  passageway.  When  we 
came  to  the  train  platforms,  I  asked  a  porter 
who  was  standing  near: 

"Where  is  the  train  for  Carlisle?" 

"There'll  be  no  train  to-night,  Miss,"  he 
answered. 

"But  why?" 

"Because,   Miss,"   in  a  whisper,  "the  Zep 
pelins  were  seen  only  eight  miles  away,  and 


60  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

a  moving  train  would  be  a  good  mark  for 
them." 

"But  they  will  not  come  here,  will  they?" 
I  asked. 

"They  are  headed  this  way,  Miss,  they  may 
be  here  in  half  an  hour." 

"Then  we  can't  get  to  Carlisle?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Miss,"  he  said,  "I 
don't  think  any  train  will  run  to-night,  except 
the  military  train.  Make  up  your  mind  you'll 
not  get  to  Carlisle  to-night." 

"When  is  there  a  train  in  the  morning?" 
I  asked  him  then. 

"There's  one  at  eight-fifteen." 

"Well,  I  suppose  we'll  go  by  that  one,"  I 
said. 

And  so  we  left  the  station. 

We  went  back  to  the  hotel.  We  were 
startled  for  a  second  when  the  registration 
forms  were  handed  to  us ;  we  hadn't  decided  on 
a  name  or  address.  I  took  the  forms  and  filled 
them  with  a  Belfast  address,  put  the  one  for 
Barney  in  front  of  him,  placing  the  pencil  on 
the  name  so  that  he  would  know  what  to  sign. 
After  signing  we  were  shown  to  our  rooms.  I 
went  to  bed  immediately  as  I  was  completely 
tired  out.     I  was  roused  from  a  heavy  sleep 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  61 

by  a  knocking  on  the  door,  and  a  voice  saying 
something  I  couldn't  distinguish.  I  thought 
it  was  the  "Boots"  wakening  me  for  break- 
fast, and  turned  over  to  finish  my  sleep.  Some 
time  later  I  was  again  wakened  by  a  loud 
knocking  on  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  called  out. 

"Barney,"  was  the  answer. 

"What  is  wrong?"  I  asked  when  I  had 
opened  the  door. 

"The  manageress  came  to  me,"  said  Barney, 
"and  said,  'Mr.  Williams,  go  to  your  sister,  I 
am  afraid  she  is  either  dead  or  has  faulted  with 
the  shock.'  " 

"What  shock?"  I  asked,  peering  into  the 
black  darkness  but  failing  to  see  anything. 

"Nothing,  only  the  Zeppelins  have  been 
dropping  bombs  all  over  the  town." 

"What!"  I  cried.  "Zeppelins!  You  don't 
mean  it.  Have  I  slept  through  all  their  bomb- 
ing?" 

"You  have,"  he  said  dryly.  "The  manager- 
ess wants  all  guests  down  in  the  parlor,  so  that 
in  case  this  building  is  damaged,  they'll  all  be 
near  the  street.  Put  something  on  and  come 
down." 

I  put  some  clothes  on  me  and  went  outside 


62  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

the  room.  I  could  not  see  my  own  hand  in 
front  of  me. 

''Hold  on  to  me,"  said  Barney,  ''and  I'll 
bring  you  downstairs.  I  know  where  the  stairs 
are."  * 

"All  right,"  I  said,  making  a  clutch  at  where 
the  voice  was  coming  from. 

"You'd  better  hold  on  to  my  back,"  said 
Barney.  "That's  the  front  of  my  shirt  you've 
got."  * 

I  slid  my  hand  around  till  I  felt  the  sus- 
penders at  the  back  and  held  onto  them.  "Go 
ahead,"  I  said,  and  we  went.  I  tried  to  re- 
member if  the  corridor  was  long  or  short,  and 
if  there  were  any  turns  from  the  stairs  to  my 
room,  but  I  could  not.  Never  have  I  walked 
along  a  corridor  as  long  as  that  one  seemed. 
After  a  bit  I  said,  "Barney,  are  you  sure 
you're  going  right?  I  don't  remember  it  being 
as  long  as  this."  We  were  going  very  slowly, 
gingerly  placing  one  foot  after  the  other. 

"We  keep  on,"  said  Barney,  "till  we  come 
to  a  turn  and  then  between  two  windows  are 
the  stairs."  And  so  we  went  on,  but  we  came 
to  no  turning.  We  were  feeling  our  way  by 
placing  our  hands  on  the  wall.  At  last,  we 
felt  an  open  space.    "All,"  said  Barney,  "this 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  63 

must  be  the  stairs."  And  although  we  did  not 
feel  the  windows  we  cautiously  stepped  to- 
wards it.  It  was  not  the  stairs  and  I  felt  curi- 
ously familiar  with  it.  I  stumbled  over  some- 
thing on  the  floor  and  stooped  to  pick  up — my 
shoe.  We  were  back  at  my  room !  We  did  not 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  be  annoyed.  We 
began  to  laugh  and  Barney  said,  "Come  on,  I 
know  the  way  back  to  my  room  and  from  there 
we'll  find  the  stairs." 

"Couldn't  you  strike  a  match?"  I  asked. 

"We  were  warned  not  to,  when  the  'Boots' 
knocked  on  the  door,"  said  Barney.  We  went 
along  the  corridor  till  Barney  found  his  room. 
From  there  he  knew  the  turns  of  the  corridor, 
and  at  last  we  found  the  stairs.  Going  down 
I  asked,  "How  is  it  that  we  are  meeting  none 
of  the  people?" 

"Because,"  said  Barney,  "they've  been 
down  since  the  first  knock  and  you  had  to  be 
wakened  twice." 

"I  thought  they  were  wakening  me  for 
breakfast,"  I  said. 

The  stairs  seemed  to  twist  and  turn,  and  at 
one  of  the  turns  I  saw  a  figure  standing  at  a 
window,  near  a  landing  as  I  thought. 

"Are  we  going  the  right  way  down  to  the 


64  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

parlor?"  I  asked  the  figure,  but  received  no 
reply. 

"He's  probably  scared  stiff  and  thinks  he's 
in  a  safe  place,"  said  Barney.  We  reached 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  one  of  the  men  took 
us  and  led  us  towards  the  parlor.  All  the 
guests  of  the  hotel  were  there  huddled  closely 
around  the  remains  of  the  fire.  I  found  a  seat 
and  sat  down.  There  was  very  little  talk.  I 
could  hear  the  guns  going  off  very  near.  One 
of  the  women  leaned  toward  me,  and  said, 
"You  were  rather  long  getting  down.  Did 
you  faint — were  you  frightened?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  slept  through  it  all, 
until  my  brother  came  and  wakened  me." 

"You  lucky  girl!"  she  exclaimed  in  heart- 
felt tones. 

We  sat  there  for  about  an  hour.  It  was  a 
silent  hour  inside,  but  from  outside  came  the 
sound  of  running  feet  and  hoarse  excited 
voices.  A  motor  car  tore  through  the  streets ; 
it  must  have  had  its  lamps  lit,  for  some  one 
yelled  after  it,  "Put  out  those  lights." 

There  was  no  sound  of  the  Zeppelins  again, 
but  the  people  in  the  parlor  kept  silent.  I  felt 
that  one  word  spoken  would  set  all  their  nerves 
on  edge.     Suddenly  there  was  a  long  drawn 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  65 

"Oh!"  followed  by  a  thud.  I  could  feel  every 
one  in  the  room  quivering.  All  turned  to  tha 
sound,  but  we  could  see  nothing.  Then  we 
heard  a  man's  voice  say,  "My  boy  has  fainted." 
They  ministered  to  him  there  in  the  darkness. 
A  few  minutes  later  a  delicate  looking  lad, 
about  twelve  years  old,  was  brought  up  to  the 
circle  round  the  fire.  One  of  the  women  made 
room  for  him  and  he  sat  on  the  floor  with  his 
head  resting  on  her  knee.  The  manageress 
must  have  left  the  room  during  the  excitement, 
for  she  returned  then  and  said,  "We  will  not 
be  disturbed  again,  so  we  can  go  to  bed  and 
finish  our  sleep."  The  tension  was  lifted  and 
we  all  began  talking  as  we  made  our  way  to 
our  rooms. 

When  I  was  going  down  the  stairs  next 
morning,  I  was  amazed  to  see  that  the  figure 
I  had  spoken  to  while  trying  to  find  my  way, 
was  a  statue.  The  waiter  told  us,  at  break- 
fast, that  some  bombs  had  been  dropped  in 
the  street  back  of  the  hotel.  They  had  killed 
eight  people,  damaged  one  or  two  buildings, 
and  made  a  hole  large  enough  to  hold  the  din- 
ing-room table.  He  also  said  that  he  had  heard 
of  a  lot  of  other  places,  but  that  was  the  only 
one  he  had  seen.    We  finished  our  breakfast 


66  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

in  a  hurry  and  left  for  the  station.  There  we 
bought  a  paper  to  read  the  full  account  of  the 
raid.    But  all  the  mention  of  it  was: 

"Zeppelins  visited  the  East  coast  of  Scotland  last  night. 
No  damage  done/' 

On  the  journey  to  Carlisle  the  carriage  was 
so  warm  and  the  seats  so  soft  that  I  became 
drowsy.  I  was  about  to  yield  when  the  other 
occupants  of  the  carriage  came  over  to  my  side 
and  stared  out  of  the  windows.  As  the  Zep- 
pelins were  still  in  my  mind,  I  thought  that 
this  might  be  one  of  the  places  they  had  visited, 
and  looked  out  of  the  window  too.  All  I  could 
see  was  a  large  field  with  brick  buildings  in 
the  center,  somewhat  like  factories,  only  they 
had  sloping  roofs  made  of  glass.  There  were 
quite  a  crowd  of  men  in  the  field.  ''That's  a 
German  Internment  Camp,"  said  one  of  the 
men.  "There  are  over  two  thousand  Germans 
there."  The  view  of  the  camp  started  a  con- 
versation on  the  war  which  lasted  till  we 
reached  Carlisle. 

From  Carlisle  we  were  to  go  to  Newcastle. 
On  looking  up  the  timetable  we  found  that  we 
could  get  a  train  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
We  then  left  the  station,  so  that  if  the  porters 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  67 

were  questioned  as  to  whether  they  had  seen 
us  or  not  they  could  say  that  we  had  left  the 
station.  In  this  way  the  trail  would  be  broken 
and  would  give  us  all  the  more  time  till  it  was 
picked  up  again.  The  journey  from  Carlisle 
to  Newcastle  was  not  so  long  as  the  last  one. 
On  arriving  there  we  again  left  the  station  and 
wandered  about  the  town.  We  had  so  much 
more  time  there,  and  walked  in  and  out  of  so 
many  streets,  crossed  so  many  crossings,  that 
my  memory  of  Newcastle  is  very  much  blurred 
and  confused.  Before  returning  to  the  station 
we  went  into  a  restaurant  and  ate  the  first 
meal  of  our  English  trip. 

Next  we  took  tickets  for  [Manchester,  but 
did  not  go  there.  While  we  were  on  the  train 
we  decided  that  we  had  better  go  to  Crewe- 
When  the  conductor  came  round  for  the 
tickets,  we  asked  him  if  this  train  would  take 
us  to  Crewe.  No,  he  said,  but  if  it  was  to 
Crewe  we  wanted  to  go  he  could  change  our 
tickets  at  the  next  stop,  and  there  we  would 
get  a  train  for  Crewe.  The  next  station  was 
Stalybridge,  and  there  we  took  the  train  to 
Crewe,  where  we  arrived  at  one-thirty  a.  m. 

From  Crewe  we  went  to  Birmingham.  It 
was  there  we  were  to  receive  information  as  to 


68  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

where  Captain  Mellowes  had  been  deported. 
We  called  at  the  address  given  to  us  and  told 
who  we  were.  Mr.  Brown  said  that  he  had 
just  received  word  that  we  were  coming,  but 
that  was  all.  There  was  no  news  for  us  about 
the  deportation.  This  was  both  amazing  and 
puzzling;  it  was  Tuesday  and  Captain  Mel- 
lowes was  to  have  been  deported  on  the  Sun- 
day past.  Why  had  we  received  no  word — 
and  what  were  we  to  do?  There  was  nothing 
for  us  to  do  but  wait.  A  hotel  was  recom- 
mended to  us;  we  went  there  and  registered 
as  brother  and  sister.  Our  pose  of  being  on  a 
holiday  compelled  us  to  stay  out  all  day  as  if 
sightseeing.  Tuesday  we  visited  all  the  prin- 
cipal buildings,  Wednesday  we  walked  all  over 
the  city.  Thursday  was  a  repetition  of 
Wednesday.  Friday,  tired  of  each  other's  com- 
pany, we  went  out  separately,  and  each  suc- 
ceeded in  losing  the  way,  but  managed  to  ar- 
rive back  at  the  hotel  for  supper. 

Not  knowing  the  city  we  had  not  ventured 
out  at  night  time,  for  like  all  other  big  cities 
in  England,  Birmingham  was  darkened  at 
night-fall.  But  on  Friday  we  went  out.  The 
streets  seemed  to  be  all  alike  to  us,  we  could 
not  tell  one  from  the  other.    The  corners  of  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  69 

curbstone  were  painted  white,  so  as  to  glim- 
mer faintly  and  warn  pedestrians  when  they 
were  approaching  a  crossing;  policemen  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  crossing  flashing  a  lamp 
attached  to  their  belts,  now  a  red  light,  now  a 
green  one.  Trees,  telegraph,  telephone,  and 
trolley  poles  were  painted  white  to  the  level 
of  the  eyes.  Not  a  light  showed  anywhere, 
not  even  at  moving  picture  palaces;  and  as  is 
usual  in  darkness  all  voices  were  subdued.  I 
am  sure  it  is  at  night  time  that  the  people  of 
England  realize  most  that  they  are  at  war. 

Saturday  came  and  still  there  was  no  news 
for  us.  We  were  not  puzzled  now.  We  were 
very  anxious.  Something  must  have  gone 
wrong,  we  thought,  or  we  would  have  had  some 
word  before  now. 

We  changed  our  hotel  as  we  felt  that  the 
people  were  becoming  too  interested  in  us.  At 
the  new  hotel  we  registered  as  teachers  on  our 
way  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  where  the  Shakes- 
peare celebrations  were  in  full  swing.  We  left 
there  in  the  morning,  carried  our  suitcases  to 
the  station,  and  left  them  in  the  Left  Luggage 
Office.  Then  we  went  to  Mr.  Brown  again  to 
find  out  if  any  word  had  come  for  us.  There 
was  a  note  for  us  there  telling  us  to  go  to  the 


70  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Midland  Hotel.  When  we  arrived  there  we 
met  a  young  lady  from  Dublin.  She  had  come 
over  with  the  word.  She  gave  us  the  address 
of  Captain  Mellowes,  and  told  us  to  lose  no 
time.  We  looked  up  the  timetable  and  found 
that  there  were  no  trains  going" there  on  Sun- 
day afternoon.  We  were  in  despair  till  our 
Birmingham  friend  told  us  he  could  hire  a 
private  motor  car  for  us.  He  did  so  and  we 
left  Birmingham  at  one-thirty  p.  m. 

We  traveled  all  afternoon  through  what  is 
known  as  the  Black  Country.  We  did  not 
bother  much  with  the  scenery  as  we  spent  most 
of  our  time  in  giving  each  other  instruction 
as  to  how  to  behave  in  different  eventualities. 
We  had  hired  the  car  to  take  us  to  Stoke-on- 
Trent.  It  was  to  return  empty.  We  thought 
it  would  be  a  much  safer  plan  if  we  could  get 
the  car  to  take  us  back  to  some  big  station  on 
the  line;  thus  instead  of  waiting  at  the  local 
station  for  a  train,  apprehending  every  mo- 
ment the  discovery  of  Captain  Mellowes'  flight, 
we  should  be  well  on  our  way  before  it  could  be 
found  out.  I  did  not  expect  that  there  would 
be  any  trouble  to  get  the  chauffeur  to  bring 
us  back.  I  figured  that  any  money  made  on 
the  return  trip  would  be  his,  and  a  working 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  71 

man  is  always  ready  to  make  more  money. 
Rut  it  must  be  done  in  such  a  way  as  not  to 
arouse  suspicion. 

Secure  in  my  figuring  I  spoke  to  the  man. 
I  said,  "I  want  you  to  take  us  to  the  railway 
station  at  Stoke.  I  expect  a  friend  there  to 
pick  us  up."  He  nodded.  It  was  dark  when 
we  drew  up  at  the  station.  I  said  to  the  man, 
"Wait  a  minute  till  I  see  if  my  friend  is  there 
before  we  take  out  the  things."  Then  I  went 
into  the  station  and  walked  in  and  out  of  the 
waiting  rooms,  up  and  down  the  platform,  and 
asked  a  porter  if  there  would  be  a  train  soon 
to  Leek  (our  real  objective).  I  returned  and 
said  to  Barney,  "He  is  not  there,"  and  to  the 
man,  "Have  3Tou  any  objections  to  going  on  to 
Leek?  It  is  eight  miles  distant.  There  won't 
be  a  train  for  an  hour,  and  I  can  have  all  my 
business  in  Leek  done  in  that  time."  He  said 
he  would  take  us  there.  I  then  asked  him  if 
he  were  going  straight  back  to  Birmingham. 
He  said  he  was.  "If  you  can  wait  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  you  can  take  us  back 
down  the  line  to  one  of  the  big  stations,  and 
be  something  in  pocket.  The  trains  are  so  ir- 
regular at  small  stations  on  Sundays."  He 
said  he  could  wait  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 


72  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

When  we  arrived  in  Leek  Barney  and  I 
jumped  out  of  the  car  as  if  we  knew  every 
inch  of  the  ground,  although  neither  of  us  had 
been  in  the  city  before. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  asked  Barney. 

"When  in  doubt  go  right,"  I  said,  and  we 
turned  to  the  right.  This  town  was  darkened 
too.  After  a  few  minutes'  walk  I  stopped  an 
old  lady  and  asked  her  to  direct  us  to  the  street 
I  wanted.  "Two  streets  up  on  the  right,"  she 
replied.  We  found  the  place;  it  was  an  ordi- 
nary house  and  to  our  surprise  there  were  no 
detectives  watching  it.  We  knocked  at  the 
door.  A  man  opened  it  about  six  inches  and 
peered  at  us. 

"Well?"  he  questioned. 

"We  are  friends  of  Captain  Mellowes  and 
heard  he  was  staying  here,  so  we  stopped  to  see 
him,"  I  said.    "Is  he  in?" 

"Come  in  till  I  take  a  look  at  you,"  he  an- 
swered. After  looking  at  us,  "Come  in  here," 
he  said,  leading  us  to  a  room.  "I'll  go  find 
him  for  you." 

After  a  few  minutes  Captain  Mellowes  came 
into  the  room.  He  seemed  surprised  to  see 
us,  and  was  about  to  enter  into  a  conversation 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  73 

with  us  when  Barney  said,  "I've  an  important 
message  to  give  you.    Where's  your  room?" 

"Come  upstairs,"  said  Captain  Mellowes, 
rising  at  once. 

They  went  upstairs.  I  could  hear  them  mov- 
ing about  the  room,  and  once  in  a  while  I  heard 
something  fall  on  the  floor  as  if  they  were 
throwing  different  parts  of  their  clothing  to 
each  other.  After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  I 
heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs  and  went  out  to 
the  hall  to  be  ready.  Both  came  down  the 
stairs,  Captain  Mellowes  went  forward  and 
opened  the  door  while  I  was  saying  "good-by" 
to  Barney,  who  was  remaining  behind  in  the 
Captain's  place.  Barney  left  the  house  the 
following  day;  he  took  a  train  at  the  local 
station  which  ran  to  Crewe,  and  from  there  he 
made  connections  that  brought  him  back  to 
Ireland  the  day  after  the  Captain's  arrival. 

Once  outside  the  house,  Captain  Mellowes 
and  myself  wasted  no  time  in  getting  to  the 
car.  I  asked  the  man  had  we  kept  him  long 
and  he  said  we  had  been  only  half  an  hour. 
He  started  the  car  and  away  we  went  again. 
After  three  hours'  ride  we  stopped  at  Stafford 
Station. 

"Can  you  not  go  as  far  as  Crewe?"  I  asked. 


74  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

''No,  Miss,"  he  replied.  "Crewe  is  alto- 
gether out  of  my  direction." 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "We'll  leave  here." 
.We  then  left  the  car,  gave  the  man  his  fee  and 
entered  the  station.  I  took  tickets  for  Crewe 
and  found  that  we  had  only  twenty  minutes 
to  wait.  We  arrived  at  Crewe  about  one  a.  m. 
and  at  one-thirty  were  in  the  train  for  Car- 
lisle. 

When  we  were  near  Carlisle  the  conductor 
came  to  collect  the  tickets ;  I  asked  him  if  Car- 
lisle was  the  last  stop. 

"No,"  he  said.  "From  there  we  go  on  to 
Glasgow  without  stopping." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  didn't  know  that  this  train 
went  to  Glasgow.  That's  where  we  want  to 
go.  You  had  better  make  us  out  Excess  Fare 
checks  and  we'll  go  on."  He  made  them  out, 
I  paid  them  and  he  went  out  through  the  car- 
riages. During  this  time  Captain  Mellowes 
was  lying  in  the  corner  as  if  asleep. 

In  my  list  of  "safe  addresses"  was  one  in 
Glasgow.  When  we  arrived  there  next  morn- 
ing we  made  our  way  to  that  address,  and  there 
we  stayed  all  day.  During  the  day  we  man- 
aged to  procure  a  clerical  suit  for  Captain 
Mellowes,  complete  even  to  the  breviary  and 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  75 

umbrella.  At  eleven  we  took  the  train  to 
Ardrossan;  from  there  we  could  get  a  boat  to 
Belfast.  We  had  decided  before  leaving  the 
house  that  we  would  travel  as  if  we  did  not 
know  each  other.  My  accent  was  no  longer 
needed,  as  a  strong  Irish  accent  was  quite  the 
thing  for  priests'  clothing;  but  we  were  to  keep 
each  other  in  sight  all  the  time. 

That  Captain  Mellowes  really  looked  the 
part  was  proved  in  the  train.  The  porter  lifted 
his  cap  to  him,  took  his  suitcase,  and  deferen- 
tially placed  him  in  the  seat  next  to  me.  There 
Captain  Mellowes  sat,  his  chin  resting  on  his 
hands,  which  were  supported  by  the  umbrella, 
as  if  lost  in  holy  meditations.  Almost  at  the 
last  moment,  half-a-dozen  North  of  Ireland 
cattle  dealers  tumbled  into  the  carriage,  shout- 
ing, laughing,  and  swearing.  The  porter  had 
locked  the  door  and  the  train  had  started  be- 
fore they  realized  what  company  they  were  in. 
A  sudden  silence  fell  on  them  all,  they  straight- 
ened themselves  up,  lifted  their  hats  in  salute 
to  the  priest,  while  questioning  each  other  with 
their  eyes.  Then  one  lifted  his  cap  again  and 
turned  to  the  rest  as  if  to  say,  "I'm  used  to  the 
company  of  priests,"  and  addressed  Captain 
Mellowes. 


76  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Are  you  crossing  to-night,  Father  ?"  he 
asked. 

"I  am,"  said  Captain  Mellowes. 

"I  hope  we'll  have  a  good  night,  Father." 

"I  hope  so." 

"I  hear  they  caught  a  submarine  up  the 
Bangor  Lough  this  morning;  but  I  don't  think 
there's  any  danger.    Do  you,  Father?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Captain  Mellowes. 

One  dealer  broke  in  then  demanding  to 
know  that  if  there  was  no  danger,  why  could 
they  not  insure  the  cattle  they  wanted  to  send 
across.  Then  each  dealer  tried  to  give  his  opin- 
ion at  the  same  time.  They  became  so  ex- 
cited, each  one  trying  to  get  an  audience  at  the 
same  time,  that  they  forgot  all  about  the  priest^ 
and  gave  back  word  for  word  to  each  other. 
With  raised  voices  they  cursed  and  swore, 
stamped  their  feet,  pounded  the  floor  with 
then  sticks,  struck  their  hands,  till  one  jumped 
from  his  seat  in  a  rage  and  his  gaze  fell  on 
the  priest.  The  priest  was  still  resting  his  chin 
on  his  hands,  taking  no  more  notice  of  them 
than  if  they  were  miles  away.  His  very  ab- 
straction was  a  rebuke  to  them.  The  one  who 
had  jumped  up  said  humbfy,  "I'm  afraid  we've 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  77 

disturbed  you,  Father."  Captain  Mellowes 
came  to  himself  with  a  start. 

"No,  no,  not  at  all,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I 
wasn't  thinking  of  you  at  all."  But  the  men 
looked  as  if  they  had  offended  beyond  hope  of 
pardon  and  kept  silent  till  we  reached  the  boat. 

Early  next  morning  I  went  up  on  deck.  We 
were  steaming  up  the  river,  I  could  see  the  city 
in  the  distance.  Nearer  to  me  wrere  the  famous 
Belfast  shipyards,  all  alive  with  the  clangor 
of  hammering.  As  we  approached  I  could  see 
the  swarms  of  men,  poised  on  derricks  and 
cranes,  hard  at  work  on  the  skeletons  of  ships. 
Just  before  we  docked  Captain  Mellowes  came 
on  deck  and  walked  over  to  the  rail  where  I 
was  standing.  There  was  some  byplay  of  sur- 
prised recognition  between  us  for  the  benefit 
of  those  standing  around.  I  asked  him  to  come 
to  the  house  for  breakfast,  and  told  him  that 
he  could  not  get  a  train  to  Dublin  before  ten 
o'clock.  It  was  then  seven  o'clock  and  the 
gangplank  was  being  put  in  place.  I  told 
Captain  Mellowes  that  I  was  well  known  on 
the  docks  since  the  dock  strike,  and  that  it 
would  be  wiser  for  him  to  follow  me  instead  of 
coming  with  me;  that  he  would  probably  pass 
the  Harbor  Constables  and  policemen  better 


78  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

alone,  because,  as  they  knew  me,  they  would  be 
likely  to  give  my  companion  a  scrutinizing 
glance  and  he  would  be  better  without  that. 

There  were  two  Harbor  Constables  and  two 
policemen  at  the  end  of  the  gangplank;  they 
were  on  the  watch  for  deserters  from  the  Army 
and  Navy.  When  I  walked  down  the  gang- 
plank I  saw  that  they  recognized  me  and  was 
glad  that  I  had  told  Captain  Mellowes  to  fol- 
low. I  wTent  in  to  the  shed  and  on  towards 
the  exit.  Midway  I  paused,  dropped  my  suit- 
case as  if  to  ease  my  arm,  and  glanced  back  to 
see  if  Captain  Mellowes  was  following.  He 
was  just  at  the  end  of  the  gangplank;  the  four 
constables  were  saluting  him  and  he  was 
gravely  saluting  them. 

I  passed  out  into  the  street  and  walked  slow- 
ly ahead  to  allow  Captain  Mellowes  to  catch 
up  on  me.  In  a  short  while  we  were  walking 
together.  It  was  too  early  to  get  a  tram,  and 
it  would  attract  too  much  attention  if  a  car 
drove  up  to  our  door,  so  we  waiked  the  dis- 
tance. Falls  Road,  in  Belfast,  is  called  the 
Nationalist  district,  and  my  home  was  near  the 
head  of  that  road.  When  we  got  to  that  part 
of  it  where  policemen  were  more  plentiful  and 
I  was  better  known,  I  told  Captain  Mellowes 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  79 

to  walk  on  ahead.  I  was  glad  I  had  done  so, 
for  I  derived  a  great  deal  of  amusement  from 
the  number  of  salutes  Captain  Mellowes  had 
to  return.  Men  and  boys  were  on  their  way 
to  work  and  they  all  saluted  him.  Every 
policeman  on  the  road  saluted  Captain  Mel- 
lowes ;  not  one  of  them  dreaming  that  the  cap- 
ture of  the  young  priest  they  were  so  courteous 
to,  would  probably  realize  for  him  the  dreams 
of  Sergeantship  every  young  policeman  in- 
dulges in. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  I  ushered 
Captain  Mellowes  into  our  house.  The  door 
was  open  and  we  entered  without  rapping.  My 
mother  thought  we  were  the  painters — she  was 
expecting  them  that  morning — and  came  out 
to  remonstrate  with  us  for  not  knocking.  She 
was  astounded  for  a  moment,  to  see  us  in  the 
hall,  then  she  threw  her  arms  around  us  both 
and  literally  dragged  us  both  into  the  room 
where  breakfast  was  on  the  table.  She  then 
called  up  the  stairs  to  my  sisters  and  told  them 
we  were  home.  On  the  instant  there  was  a 
clatter  and  scamper,  and  pell-mell  down  the 
stairs  charged  my  young  sisters,  some  partially 
dressed  and  some  in  their  nightgowns;  burst- 
ing into  the  room  they  flung  themselves  on 


80  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Captain  Mellowes,  hugging  and  kissing  him 
as  if  he  were  a  long  lost  brother  returned. 
They  hung  about  him  asking  him  ques- 
tions, interrupting  each  other.  They 
poured  forth  so  many  questions  that  he 
could  not  answer  them  much  less  cat  his  break- 
fast. Mother  noticed  that  his  breakfast  was 
growing  cold  and  turning  to  the  youngsters 
said  in  a  voice  that  tried  to  be  severe,  "Chil- 
dren. I'm  surprised  at  you — look  at  your 
clothes."  Then  there  was  another  rush  to  the 
door  and  a  scamper  on  the  stairs  as  they  raced 
up  to  dress.  Never  were  they  dressed  so  quickly 
before,  for  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell 
they  were  down  again;  crowding  around  the 
table  each  giving  the  other  in  excitable  voice 
the  story  of  how  Captain  Mellowes  managed 
to  return;  but  none  of  them  bothering  to  ask 
Captain  Mellowes  or  myself  how  it  really  hap- 
pened. 

Now  that  Captain  Mellowes  was  in  Belfast 
the  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  get  him  to 
Dublin.  He  could  not  go  by  train  for  there 
were  detectives  at  all  the  stations.  There  have 
always  been  detectives  at  railway  stations  in 
Ireland,  whose  sole  business  is  to  watch  and  to 
report  the  arrival  and  departure  of  the  im- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  81 

portant  members  of  the  Separatist  Party  (the 
revolutionary  body).  This  method  keeps  the 
local  authorities  informed  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  "such  and  such  a  person."  On  this 
account  I  sought  a  friend  who  owned  an  auto- 
mobile. It  so  happened  that  he  was  going  to 
Dublin  that  very  evening  and  he  agreed  to 
take  Captain  Mellowes  with  him. 

When  I  arrived  home  again  I  saw  a  woman 
in  the  parlor,  who  looked  up  at  me  through 
her  veil,  in  the  most  mournful  way;  certainly 
the  most  forlorn  person  I  had  seen  in  a  long 
while.  But  as  I  went  nearer  I  recognized  the 
clothes.  My  young  sisters  had  decked  Captain 
Mellowes  out  in  our  clothes  to  see  if  they  were 
skillful  at  disguising.  They  were — but  the 
clerical  clothes  were  better. 

I  told  Captain  Mellowes  of  the  arrange-? 
ments  I  had  made — we  were  to  walk  into  the 
country  along  the  Lisburn  Road  for  about  two 
miles,  and  there  meet  the  motor-car.  When  it 
was  time  we  started  out.  We  were  a  party  of 
four,  Captain  Mellowes  and  another  young 
man,  who  was  at  that  time  hiding  from  the 
police  in  our  house,  my  sister  Agna,  and  my- 
self. We  walked  along  the  country  road  and 
arrived  at  the  appointed  place  too  soon.    The 


82  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

car  was  a  little  late ;  every  car  that  came  along 
would  lift  our  hearts  up  and  when  it  whizzed 
by  would  leave  us  little  more  nervously  ex- 
cited. It  came  in  the  end,  however,  and 
stopped  for  a  minute  while  Captain  Mellowes 
was  being  bundled  on  to  the  car,  then  sped 
away  leaving  us  in  the  dark  country  road. 

I  arrived  home  about  one-thirty  and  went  to 
bed,  tired  out  and  fully  resolved  to  stay  there 
for  the  next  day.  But,  alas!  the  news  had 
got  about  and  after  school  hours  some  of  my 
friends  called  to  hear  my  version,  and  com- 
pelled me  to  get  up.  The  day  or  so  following 
I  took  part  in  a  Volunteer  play  called  "Ire- 
land First"  in  order  to  give  the  impression  that 
I  had  been  in  Belfast  and  rehearsing  with  the 
company.  On  Saturday  my  mother  received  a 
letter  from  my  father;  the  only  reference  he 
made  to  the  job  he  had  given  me  was,  "Tell 
Nora  I  am  proud  of  her." 


VII 

After  that  I  was  kept  busy  with  the  Ambu- 
lance class,  and  in  preparing  field  dressings 
and  bandages.  There  were  about  fifty  girls 
working  under  my  instructions  and  the  work 
was  beginning  to  be  piled  up.  One  squad  was 
cutting  up  the  material,  another  wrapping  it 
up  in  waterproof  material,  others  pasting  on 
the  directions,  others  sewing  the  completed 
bundle  up  in  cotton  bags  which  permitted  them 
to  be  sewn  into  the  men's  coats.  We  were  kept 
busy.  When  one  of  the  officers  came  to  the 
room  to  order  the  field  dressings  for  his  men, 
he  voiced  the  opinion  of  all  when  he  said, 
"Well,  this  looks  like  business.  As  soon  as  I 
stepped  inside  the  door  I  felt  that  something 
important  was  going  on.  I  suppose  you  all- 
feel  that  way?"  We  did,  and  worked  all  the 
harder  for  it. 

Some  tune  before  this  my  father  had  asked 
me  if  I  would  be  in  Dublin  with  him  during 
the  fight,  but  I  had  said,  No,  I  would  rather 

83 


84  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

stay  with  the  Northern  division;  that  I  thought 
I  had  better  stay  with  the  girls  with  whom  I 
had  been  working.  A  younger  sister  had  also 
decided  to  join  the  Northern  detachment.  My 
mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family  were  going 
to  Dublin  so  as  to  be  near  my  father.  We  were 
leaving  the  house  just  as  it  stood,  to  avoid  sus- 
picion, taking  nothing  from  it  but  the  trunks 
containing  clothes.  These  could  easily  be 
taken  without  causing  undue  suspicion  as  it  is 
quite  a  usual  thing  for  families  to  go  away  for 
the  Easter  holidays.  Between  helping  to  pack 
up  the  trunks  at  home  and  the  field  dressings 
outside  I  managed  to  secure  six  hours'  sleep 
during  the  latter  part  of  Holy  Week.  My 
mother  left  Belfast  on  Good  Friday,  my  sister 
and  I  the  following  day. 

The  instructions  given  the  First  Aid  corps 
were:  To  meet  at  the  Great  Northern  Sta- 
tion with  full  equipment  and  two  days'  rations. 
When  we  met  the  station  was  crowded  with 
holiday-goers.  There  were  three  different 
queues  circled  around  the  station.  We  divided 
ourselves  amongst  them  so  that  our  party 
would  not  be  large  enough  to  attract  attention. 
I  found  myself  behind  a  party  of  soldiers  going 
home  on  furlough.     I  could  not  help  wonder- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  85 

ing  if  their  furlough  would  be  cut  short,  and 
if  I  might  meet  them  again  under  different 
circumstances. 

After  I  had  taken  the  tickets  I  went  to  the 
trains  to  see  if  it  were  possible  to  get  a  car- 
riage to  ourselves.  As  the  party  had  been 
split  in  two,  one  part  to  come  on  a  later  train, 
we  could  just  fill  a  carriage.  There  was  so 
much  traffic  that  the  railroad  company  had 
pulled  out  from  many  hiding  places  all  the  cars 
they  could  find.  The  line  of  cars  presented  a 
very  curious  picture  as  it  stood  waiting  for  the 
signal  to  start.  There  were  the  very  latest 
corridor  carriages,  carriages  quite  new-looking, 
carriages  old,  carriages  very  old,  and  carriages 
so  very  old  that  they  were  an  absolute  tempta- 
tion to  us.  These  last  were  of  that  old  type 
that  has  no  wall  between  tho  carriages;  the 
back  of  the  seat  is  the  only  dividing  wall.  We 
picked  out  one  and  entered,  took  our  seats, 
stowed  away  our  haversacks,  water-bottles, 
and  hospital  supplies  under  the  seats  and  on 
the  racks  over  our  heads.  Then  we  sat  in 
pleasant  anticipation  to  see  who  would  enter 
the  other  carriage.  One  of  the  girls  had  put 
her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  suddenly  she 
gave  a  whoop  and  waved  her  arms.  We  hauled 


86  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

her  in  angrily,  demanding  to  know  what  she 
meant  by  attracting  attention  in  such  a  manner 
— didn't  she  know  that  the  fewer  that  saw  us 
the  better?  "But,"  she  said  when  she  got  a 
chance,  "I  saw  the  Young  Ireland  Pipers 
coming  up  the  platform  looking  for  a  carriage, 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  great  to  have  them 
in  the  next  carriage.  They  would  pass  the 
time  for  us  by  playing  the  pipes."  (The 
Young  Ireland  Pipers  were  attached  to  the 
Volunteers.) 

By  this  time  the  Pipers  had  come  to  the  door 
of  the  carriage  next  to  us  and  were  getting  in. 
They  were  both  surprised  and  pleased  when 
they  saw  the  girls.  Thej^  knew  then  that  they 
could  play  all  the  rebel  songs  they  desired,  and 
say  all  the  revolutionary  things  they  could 
think  of.  That  was  one  good  thing  about  the 
Republican  forces  in  our  part  of  the  country — 
every  one  knew  every  one  else;  and  so  it  was 
elsewhere  I  am  told.  I  doubt  if  ever  pipers 
were  so  dressed  going  to  battle.  Slung  from 
one  shoulder  was  a  haversack,  crossing  it  was 
a  bandolier  filled  with  cartridges,  a  belt  held 
the  haversack  in  its  place  on  one  side,  and  from 
the  other  a  bayonet  was  suspended.  Strapped 
to  the  backs  were  rolled  tar  sheets,  and  under 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  87 

their  arms  they  held  the  bagpipes  with  their 
green,  white,  and  orange  streamers  flying  over 
their  shoulders.  They  were  most  warlike  mu- 
sicians. But  more  significant  than  all  were 
the  eager  eyes  shining  out  from  under  their 
caps.  One  young  chap  leaned  over  the  wall 
and  said  to  me,  "My  God!  Isn't  it  great? 
We  worked   and   worked  without  hope   and 

now "     One  of  the  boys  had  been  tuning 

up  the  pipes  and  as  the  train  began  to  move 
we  swung  out  of  the  station  to  the  tune  of: 

"Soldiers   are  we,  whose  lives  are  pledged  to   Ireland, 

Some  have  come  from  the  land  beyond  the  wave, 
Sworn  to  be  free,  no  more  our  ancient  sireland 

Shall  shelter  the  despot  or  the  slave. 
To-night  we  man  the  Bearna  Baoighail  * 

In  Erin's  cause  come  woe  or  weal, 
'Mid  cannon's  roar  or  rifle's  peal 

We'll  chant  a  soldier's  song." 

Tyrone  was  our  destination  and  we  arrived 
there  before  dark.  .We  were  met  by  a  local 
committee  and  taken  to  a  hotel.  After  we  had 
something  to  eat,  we  went  over  to  the  drill  hall. 
There  I  had  the  first  wound  to  attend  to — one 
of  the  men  had  accidentally  shot  himself  while 
cleaning  his  revolver.  There  was  quite  a  crowd 
around  me  while  I  was  dressing  the  wound. 

*Barna  Bail  "The  Gap  of  Danger." 


88  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

When  I  had  finished,  the  men  said  that  they 
hoped  I  would  be  detailed  with  their  company, 
as  they  would  feel  much  safer.  I  said  that  I 
didn't  want  to  dress  wounds  till  I  had  a  chance 
to  make  some:  at  this  they  laughed  and  prom- 
ised me  that  I  would  get  all  the  chance  I 
wanted.  I  then  asked  them  when  they  would 
mobilize.  "To-morrow  morning,"  they  re- 
plied. "We  are  waiting  for  the  Belfast  Divi- 
sion to  arrive.  We  start  on  our  maneuvers  at 
12  o'clock.    We  will  all  be  together  then." 

We  were  still  talking  of  our  hopes  when 
some  one  came  into  the  hall  and  said  that  he 
had  a  message  for  Miss  Connolly.  "Here  I 
am,"  I  said.    "What  do  you  want?" 

"Come  outside,  Miss  Connolly,"  said  he.  "I 
have  a  message  for  you."  I. followed  the  man 
outside.  The  message  he  gave  me  was  to  the? 
effect  that  the  Commandant  in  the  North  had 
sent  him  to  say  that  there  would  be  no  fighting 
in  the  North;  that  he  had  received  a  demobiliz- 
ing order,  but  that  he  thought  there  would  be 
fighting  in  Dublin.  We  could  decide  whether 
we  would  go  back  to  Belfast  or  on  to  Dublin. 
He  left  the  matter  entirely  in  our  own  hands. 
I  left  the  messenger  and  went  back  to  the  hall 
to  call  the  girls  together.     I  asked  them  to 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  89 

come  with  me  to  the  hotel.  I  then  told  them 
the  text  of  the  message  I  had  received  and 
asked  them  to  decide  whether  they  would  re- 
turn to  Belfast  or  go  to  Dublin.  I  said  that 
I  was  going  to  Dublin  and  they  decided  to  go 
with  me.  One  of  the  girls  suggested  that  we 
say  the  Rosary  for  the  men  who  were  about 
to  fight.  We  knelt  down  and  said  it.  We  then 
began  to  get  our  things  together  again.  I  in- 
quired about  the  trains  to  Dublin  and  was  told 
that  there  would  be  no  train  till  midnight.  It 
was  almost  10  o'clock  then  and  we  were  some 
miles  away  from  a  station.  I  asked  one  of  the 
men  where  I  could  get  a  car  to  take  us  to  the 
station.  They  protested  against  our  leaving, 
but  I  said  that  we  had  our  work  to  do,  and 
must  get  to  Dublin  as  soon  as  possible.  After 
some  talk  he  sent  one  of  the  men  to  get  two 
cars  for  us.  We  waited  most  impatiently  till 
they  came,  then  piling  on  to  them  as  best  we 
could  we  left  the  town  and  went  towards  the 
station. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  train  we  saw 
the  second  contingent  arriving  from  Belfast. 
The  men  had  their  equipment  with  them  and 
swung  out  of  the  station  in  a  truly  martial 
way.    I  knew  from  their  joyous  faces  and  their 


90  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

remarks  that  they  had  not  received  the  news  wq 
had,  and  I  pictured  to  myself  the  change  there 
would  be  when  they  did. 

Our  train  left  Tyrone  at  twelve-thirty,  and 
arrived  in  Dublin  at  five-fifteen.  .We  went 
directly  to  Liberty  Hall  for  I  knew  my  father 
would  be  there.  Ever  since  the  attempted  raid 
on  Liberty  Hall,  he  had  stayed  there  every 
night  under  an  armed  guard.  He  had  deter- 
mined that  he  would  not  be  arrested  before  the 
day  arrived. 

As  we  approached  to  the  building  we  saw 
an  armed  sentry  keeping  watch  through  a 
window;  we  went  up  the  steps  and  knocked  on 
the  door.  A  sentry  came  to  the  door  and  asked 
our  business.  I  said  I  was  Mr.  Connolly's 
daughter  and  that  the  girls  were  ambulance 
workers  from  the  North.  He  did  not  know 
me,  so  he  called  to  some  one  else  to  decide  for 
him.  The  man  he  called  to  was  the  officer  of 
the  guard  who  knew  me.  As  we  went  inside 
the  door  and  up  the  stairs  I  asked  him  if  he 
thought  I  could  see  my  father.  He  told  me 
that  my  father  had  not  been  able  to  go  to  bed 
until  three  o'clock.  I  said  I  thought  it  best  to 
see  my  father  at  once.  He  then  escorted  me 
to  the  corridor  in  which  my  father's  room  was 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  91 

and  told  me  the  number.  I  walked  along  the 
corridor  till  I  found  the  room  and  knocked  on 
the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  called  my  father. 

"Nora,"  I  answered. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you 
were  with  the  North  men." 

"Let  me  in,  father,"  I  said.  "I  am  afraid 
there  is  something  wrong." 

He  opened  the  door  and  I  entered  the  room. 
It  was  rather  a  small  room,  square  and  slightly 
furnished.  There  were  but  two  chairs,  a  table, 
a  cupboard  and  an  army  cot.  My  father  was 
lying  on  the  cot  and  looking  at  me  in  surprise. 
I  went  over  to  him  and  knelt  down  beside  the 
cot  to  tell  him  why  I  was  there. 

"What  does  it  mean,  father?  Are  we  not 
going  to  fight?"  I  asked  him  when  I  had  fin- 
ished. 

"Not  fight!"  he  said  in  amazement.  "Nora, 
if  we  don't  fight  now,  we  are  disgraced  for- 
ever; and  all  we'll  have  left  to  hope  and  pray; 
for  will  be,  that  an  earthquake  may  come  and 
swallow  Ireland  up." 

"Then  why  were  we  told  last  night  that  there 
would  be  no  fighting  in  tha  North?" 


92  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"We  received  word  last  night  that  there 
could  not  be  got  fifty  men  to  leave  Belfast." 

"That  is  not  true!"  I  cried.  "Why,  there 
were  fifty  men  on  the  train  with  us  leaving 
Belfast;  and  before  we  left  Tyrone  there  were 
two  hundred.  I  saw  them  myself.  They  are 
there  now  with  all  their  equipment,  eager  and 
happy  and  boisterous  with  delight." 

"That  is  a  different  story  from  what  we  were 
told,"  said  my  father. 

"Mine  is  the  true  one,"  I  returned.  "But 
don't  accept  my  word  for  it.  Call  in  the  other 
girls  and  question  them." 

"Ask  them  to  come  in." 

I  went  out  to  the  girls  and  said  that  my 
father  would  like  to  see  them.  They  came  in; 
they  all  knew  my  father  but  he  did  not  know 
them  all,  so  I  told  him  all  their  names. 

"Tell  me,  girls,"  said  my  father,  "how  many 
men  you  saw  in  Tyrone  before  you  left,  Bel- 
fast men  particularly." 

Their  story  was  practically  the  same  as  mine. 
When  he  had  heard  them  all,  my  father  asked 
one  of  them  to  call  in  the  guard  who  was  on 
duty  in  the  corridor.  When  the  guard  had 
entered  the  room,  or  rather  stood  at  the  door, 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  93 

my  father  said  to  him,  "Call  the  officer  of  the 
guard." 

Shortly  afterwards  the  officer  of  the  guard 
knocked  on  the  door.  I  opened  the  door  and 
he  came  inside,  saluted  and  said,  "Yes,  sir?" 

"Send  in  five  men  who  know  the  city  thor- 
oughly," said  my  father. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  officer  as  he  saluted 
again. 

"Now,"  said  my  father  turning  to  us  again. 
"I  am  going  to  send  you  to  each  of  the  other 
Commandants.  You  tell  them  just  what  you 
have  told  me.  And  after  you  tell  them  all, 
ask  them  to  come  here  as  quickly  as  they  can." 

The  five  Citizen  Army  men  came  to  the 
room  shortly  after  that,  and  each  of  the  girls 
was  given  different  addresses  to  go  to.  It  fell 
to  my  lot  to  go  to  Sean  MacDermott.  I  had 
as  my  guide  a  man  who  looked  as  little  an 
Irishman  as  he  well  might  be.  He  was  short 
and  stout  yet  very  light  on  his  feet;  he  wore 
bright  blue  overalls,  short  black  leggings,  and 
his  face  was  burnt  a  dark  brown.  He  wore  a 
wide  black  felt  hat  and  from  under  it  I  saw 
hanging  from  his  ears,  big,  round  gold  ear^ 
rings.  He  looked  as  I  fancied  a  Neapolitan 
fisherman  would  look  like. 


94  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

The  leaders  slept  no  two  nights  in  the  same 
place.  Only  themselves  knew  where  each  other 
was  sleeping.  This  was  for  safety.  I  was 
taken  to  a  place  beyond  Parnell  Square,  about 
twenty  minutes  walk  from  the  Hall.  When 
we  arrived  there  we  had  to  knock  the  people 
up;  and  it  was  some  time  before  we  received 
any  answer.  They  were  very  suspicious  of  us 
when  I  said  who  it  was  I  wanted.  The  woman, 
who  opened  the  door,  consulted  with  some  one 
inside  the  house,  before  she  decided  to  let  me 
in.  The  guide  having  done  his  duty  in  bring- 
ing me  there  and  seeing  that  I  was  about  to 
enter  the  house,  went  back  to  Liberty  Hall  to 
report. 

The  woman  then  asked  me  who  I  was,  what 
did  I  want,  wouldn't  any  one  else  do,  and  a 
score  of  other  questions.  She  went  away  after 
she  had  received  my  answers.  In  a  few  min- 
utes a  young  man  came  down  to  interview  me 
also.  I  told  him  that  I  was  Mr.  Connolly's 
daughter  and  that  Sean  MacDermott  knew 
me,  and  that  I  had  a  message  for  him  from  my 
father.  He  was  still  reluctant  to  let  me  see 
Sean  and  said  that  Sean  had  hardly  had  time 
to  go  to  sleep.  I  said  that  I  knew  that  but 
that  I  had  been  traveling  all  night  from  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  95 

North,  and  had  wakened  my  father  over  an 
hour  ago  who  had  had  even  less  sleep  than 
Sean. 

After  that  he  went  away  and  came  hack  to 
say  that  I  could  see  Sean  MacDermott.  I 
went  upstairs  and  found  him  in  bed.  He  was 
looking  very  pale  and  tired.  He  listened  to 
me,  while  I  told  him  all  I  had  to  tell,  without 
saying  a  word  till  I  had  finished.  He  then 
asked  me  if  the  others  knew  this.  I  told  him 
that  there  were  other  girls  seeing  the  other 
leaders  at  the  same  time.  He  remained  si- 
lent for  a  while  and  then  said,  "I  am  very  glad 
you  came.  Tell  your  father  that  I'll  be  at  the 
Hali  as  sooii  as  I  can."  I  then  returned  to 
Liberty  Hall.  It  was  then  about  seven 
o'clock  and  we  decided  to  go  to  Mass  at  Marl- 
borough Cathedral  around  the  corner. 


VIII 

When  we  returned  from  Mass  my  father 
had  risen,  and  dressed  in  his  uniform  was  going 
about  the  room  singing  to  himself: 

"We've  got  another  savior  now, 
That  savior  is  the  sword." 

I  began  to  prepare  breakfast  for  my  father 
and  the  rest  of  us.  But  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore we  sat  down  to  our  breakfast,  as  one  by 
one  the  leaders  dropped  into  the  room,  and  as 
none  of  them  had  waited  to  have  breakfast  be- 
fore coming  they  had  to  be  served.  I  remem- 
ber giving  breakfast  to  a  young  officer  who  had 
come  up  on  the  night  mail  from  Limerick,  for 
final  instructions.  I  gave  Tom  Clarke  his 
last  Easter  breakfast.  It  seemed  fitting  he 
should  have  as  table  companion  Sean  MacDer- 
mott — they  were  always  such  close  friends. 
Before  they  had  finished  Joseph  Plunkett,  his 
throat  heavily  swathed  in  bandages,  for  he  had 
shortly  gone  under  an  operation,  arrived;  and 

96 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  97 

following  him  closely  came  Thomas  MacBon- 
agh.  Michael  Mallin  and  my  father  had  their 
breakfast  together.  They  were  all  in  uniform, 
except  Tom  Clarke  and  Sean  MacDermott. 
Pearse  did  not  have  his  breakfast  at  Liberty 
Hall;  he  arrived  somewhat  later  than  the 
others  and  had  already  eaten.  While  they  were 
all  standing  around  and  talking,  one  of  the 
girls  came  in  and  said,  "Mr.  Connolly,  look, 
the  Independent  says,  'No  maneuvers  to-day.' 
What  does  that  mean?    Is  it  a  trick?" 

"What  is  that?"  said  my  father,  taking  the 
paper  from  her.  "Maneuvers"  was  the  name 
under  which  our  men  were  being  mobilized.  If 
the  Independent,  which  had  the  largest  circu- 
lation of  any  Sunday  paper  throughout  the 
country,  printed  such  a  bit  of  news  it  would 
disorganize  our  forces  to  a  great  extent.  Yet, 
there  it  was: 

Owing  to  the  critical  situation  all  Volunteer  parades 
and  maneuvers  are  canceled. 

By  order 

Eoin  MacNeill. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  asked  my  father 
turning  to  Pearse. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  Pearse.  "I  know  noth- 
ing whatsoever  about  this,"  he  said  when  he 


98  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

had  read  it.  After  that  there  was  some  low- 
voiced  conversation  among  the  leaders;  and 
then  the  Council  room.  They  remained  there 
till  after  one  o'clock. 

We  then  ate  our  long  delayed  breakfasts 
and  then  went  to  another  part  of  the  Hail  to 
see  more  stirring  sights.  On  our  way  out  of 
the  corridor  we  had  to  pass  the  Council  room. 
It  was  guarded  by  an  armed  sentry  who  stood 
at  the  door  forbidding  all  to  pass.  He  stopped 
us  and  would  not  allow  us  to  pass  until  one 
of  the  officers  coming  out  of  the  room  saw  our, 
plight  and  told  him  who  we  were.  When  we 
came  to  the  corner  of  the  corridor  we  were 
again  stopped  by  a  sentry,  but  he  knew  me 
and  we  went  on  out  to  the  front  of  the  build- 
ing. 

Here,  all  was  excitement,  guards  at  the  top 
and  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  men  and  boys, 
women  and  girls  running  up  and  down;  Citi- 
zen Army  men  arriving  by  the  dozen  armed 
with  all  then  equipment,  poured  steadily  into 
the  great  front  hall. 

We  remained  about  the  Hall  as  we  had  been 
told  to  stay  within  call  in  case  we  were  needed 
as  messengers  to  the  North.  We  remained  in 
the  vicinity  until  well  on  in  the  afternoon.    It 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  99 

was  not  until  the  Citizen  Army  started  out  on 
a  march  that  we  were  freed.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  understand  how  it  was  that  the 
authorities  did  not  become  aware  that  some- 
thing untoward  was  afoot.  There  were 
two  dozen  policemen  detailed  to  attend  the 
Citizen  Army  march  and  they  hung  around 
Beresford  Place  waiting  for  the  march  to  be- 
gin. Surely  they  should  have  been  able  to 
sense  the  difference  in  the  feeling  of  the  crowds 
that  were  thronged  around  Liberty  Hall  all 
the  day.  There  was  no  disguising  by  the  peo- 
ple that  they  expected  a  different  ending  to 
this  march  than  to  all  the  other  marches.  Else 
why  the  haversacks  filled  with  food,  the  ban- 
doliers filled  with  ammunition,  and  the  supply 
wagons  piled  high  with  supplies?  The  men 
and  women  were  under  military  orders.  They 
were  no  longer  a  volunteer  organization,  they 
were  a  nation's  army.  Their  fathers  and, 
mothers,  their  wives  and  children,  their  sisters 
and  brothers,  and  their  sweethearts  knew  that 
from  that  day  forth  their  lives  wexe  no  longer 
their  own,  but  belonged  to  IrelanchJ  And  while 
they  openly  exulted  in  this  thought  and 
brought  parting  gifts  to  their  loved  ones,  the 
police  saw  nothing. 


100  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Before  they  went  on  their  march  my  father 
called  me  to  him  and  told  me  to  bring  the  girls 
to  Surrey  House,  the  home  of  the  Countess  de 
Markievicz,  so  that  they  would  have  a  rest  be- 
fore reporting  at  Liberty  Hall  the  following 
morning.  They  badly  needed  rest  as  they  had 
had  no  sleep  the  night  before.  Our  orders  were 
to  report  at  Liberty  Hall  the  next  morning  at 
eight  o'clock. 

The  next  morning  when  we  reached  Liberty 
Hall  we  were  told  that  we  were  to  be  given 
a  message  to  take  back  North  with  us.  The 
message  was  to  be  written  and  signed  by  Pa- 
draic  Pearse;  therefore  we  had  to  wait  until  he 
came.  While  we  were  waiting  Thomas  Mac- 
Donagh  came  into  the  room.  He  was  in  uni- 
form. He  greeted  us  in  his  gay,  kindly  way 
and  pretended  to  jeer  at  us  for  leaving  the 
city. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  "on  the  brink  of  a 
revolution  and  all  you  are  thinking  of  is  to  get 
out  of  the  city  before  we  begin. " 

While  he  was  talking  my  father  came  into 
the  room  carrying  a  large  poster.  He  unrolled 
it  and  spread  it  out  on  the  table  saying,  "Come 
here,  girls,  and  read  this  carefully.  It  would 
be  too  dangerous  to  allow  you  to  carry  it  with 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  101 

you,  but  read  it  carefully  and  tell  the  men  in 
the  North  of  what  you  have  read."  We  all 
gathered  around  the  table  and  read  The  Proc- 
lamation of  the  Irish  Republic.  I  think  that 
we  had  the  honor  of  being  amongst  the  first  to 
see  the  proclamation. 

Pearse  came  in  while  we  were  discussing  our 
intended  journey.  He  was  in  uniform;  his 
military  overcoat  making  him  look  taller  and 
broader  than  ever.  My  father  told  him  that 
we  were  waiting  for  the  message.  He  went 
to  the  Council  room  to  write  it  and  we  followed 
him.  While  we  were  waiting  my  father  gave 
me  some  advice  as  to  what  we  should  do  when 
we  arrived  in  the  North.  Then  Pearse  called 
to  us  and  we  went  to  him.  He  handed  me  an 
envelope  and  said,  "May  God  bless  you  all  and 
the  brave  men  of  the  North."  He  said  it  so 
solemnly  and  so  earnestly  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  at  Benediction.  I  then  said  "Good-by" 
to  my  father  and  left  the  Hall  to  take  the  nine 
o'clock  train  to  the  North. 


IX 


We  knew  that  the  men  were  to  rise  at  twelve 
o'clock  and  as  that  hour  drew  nigh  we  watched 
and  listened  anxiously  to  hear  or  see  if  the 
news  had  reached  the  North  before  us.  At 
twelve  o'clock  we  left  the  train  at  Portadown. 
There  was  a  large  body  of  men  belonging  to 
an  Orange  Band  parading  up  and  down  the 
platform  beating  their  drums.  They  were  go- 
ing to  some  meeting  in  Deny.  The  noise  was 
terrific  but  we  bore  it  gladly  for  it  told  more 
than  words  that  our  men  in  Dublin  had  been 
able  to  cany  out  their  plans  without  any  unto- 
ward accident.  We  changed  into  the  other 
train  and  finished  our  journey  in  a  less  anxious 
frame  of  mind.  But  there  was  disappointment 
awaiting  us  at  Tyrone;  when  we  arrived  there 
the  men  had  already  received  the  demobilizing 
order  of  MacNeill  and  had  obeyed  it.  The 
Belfast  contingent  was  already  in  Belfast  and 
the  country  divisions  had  not  had  time  to 
mobilize  before  the  order  from  MacNeill  had 

102 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  103 

arrived.  When  I  found  this  out  I  sent  mes- 
sengers to  the  various  bodies  advising  them  of 
what  was  going  on  in  Dublin.  The  principal 
dispatch  was  the  one  given  us  by  Pearse  and 
that  one  was  sent  off  in  care  of  my  sister,  other 
girls  going  to  other  places.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  the  rest  of  us  to  do  but  to  await  the 
return  of  the  messengers. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  a  boy  came  from 
Belfast  who  said  that  he  had  been  sent  to  ad- 
vise us  to  return  to  Belfast  and  asked  us  to 
go  back  with  him.  I  asked  the  officer  of  the 
local  Volunteer  Corps  if  they  intended  to  go 
on  with  the  fight  now  that  the  men  in  Dublin 
were  out,  or  if  they  intended  to  obey  Mac- 
Neill's  order.  He  replied  that  they  were  in 
honor  bound  to  assist  the  Dublin  men.  I  said 
that  being  the  case  I  would  remain  with  them 
and  that  we  would  attach  ourselves  to  their 
body  as  they  had  no  First  Aid  Corps. 

About  an  hour  later  the  local  organizer  came 
to  the  hotel  and  asked  for  me.  I  went  out  to 
him;  he  said  that  it  would  be  better  if  we  wera 
in  a  less  conspicuous  place — would  we  go  to 
some  place  out  in  the  country?  It  was  nearer 
to  the  meeting  place.  We  agreed  to  go  and 
started  out  about  ten  o'clock. 


104  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

It  was  a  night  of  pitch  darkness,  a  heavy- 
rain  was  pouring  steadily.  After  a  ten  min- 
utes' walk  we  were  out  on  a  country  road  where 
the  darkness  seemed  to  grow  thicker  with  every 
step.  We  could  see  nothing  but  trusting  to 
our  guides  soughed  up  and  down  in  the  mud. 
For  twenty  minutes  we  walked  on,  then  we 
were  told  to  turn  to  the  right.  We  could  see 
nothing  that  showed  a  turning,  still  we  turned 
and  found  that  we  were  in  a  narrower  road 
than  before.  It  was  even  muddier  than  the 
road  we  had  left  but  it  was  shorter.  At  the 
end  we  were  stopped  by  a  door  of  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  barn.  One  of  the  men  rapped 
on  it  and  it  was  opened  to  us.  We  stepped 
inside  and  when  our  eyes  were  used  to  the  light 
again,  saw  a  number  of  men  with  their  rifles. 
The  hall  was  filled  with  standing  men,  a  place 
was  cleared  around  the  hearth  upon  which  was 
blazing  the  biggest  turf  fire  I  had  ever  seen. 
On  a  bench  near  the  fire  were  a  half  dozen 
women ;  they  had  brought  food  to  the  men  and 
were  now  waiting  to  take  the  girls  home  with 
them.  After  a  short  wait  we  started  out  again, 
still  following  blindly  where  we  were  led.  At 
length  we  came  to  a  crossroads  and  there  the 
party  divided.    I,  along  with  some  other  girls, 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  105 

was  taken  to  a  large  farmhouse  where  the  folk 
were  waiting  up  for  us.  We  went  into  a  large 
kitchen  and  sat  around  a  big  turf  fire.  There 
was  porridge,  in  a  pot  hanging  over  the  fire 
from  a  long  hook,  for  those  who  liked  it;  and 
the  kettle  was  boiling  for  those  who  preferred 
tea.  We  had  a  long  talk  around  the  fire.  The 
old  man  told  us  of  his  experiences  when  he  was 
a  Fenian  and  drew  comparisons  between  that 
time  and  this.  Our  time  wras  nothing  like  his — 
so  he  told  us. 

In  the  morning  we  rose  early ;  we  expected  to 
have  word  from  Belfast  every  minute  telling 
us  to  get  on  the  march.  But  no  word  came  that 
day.  As  the  hours  passed  my  anxiety  became 
unbearable.  I  had  had  no  word  from  anybody 
since  I  had  come  there.  The  men  and  the  boys 
could  not  work  for  fear  the  word  would  come 
when  they  were  in  the  fields  and  might  be  de- 
layed if  they  were  not  on  hand.  And  all  the 
day  long  they  were  riding  up  and  down  the 
roads  on  the  watch  for  the  messenger  who 
would  give  them  the  orders  to  rise.  The  sec- 
ond day  passed,  still  the  word  never  came.  The 
men  and  boys  came  to  us  every  hour  to  re- 
port all  they  knew.  And  on  Wednesday  at 
noon  a  man  burst  into  the  farmhouse  crying, 


106  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Pack  up  in  the  name  of  God,  the  word  has 
come!"  With  what  joy  we  packed  up.  How 
quickly  the  water  bottles  were  filled  and  the 
haversacks  stuffed  with  food.  Butter,  eggs, 
bread,  and  milk  were  thrust  upon  us.  We 
could  not  take  enough  to  satisfy  the  good  peo- 
ple. The  place  was  full  of  bustle  and  excite- 
ment, and  then — the  order  was  rescinded;  it 
was  a  false  alarm. 

That  disappointment  ended  my  patience.  I 
determined  to  go  after  my  sister,  who  had  not 
returned  since  she  had  left  me  to  deliver  the 
dispatch  written  by  Pearse ;  and  when  we  were 
together  again  we  would  both  start  for  Dublin. 
I  told  the  girls  that  I  did  not  think  that  there 
would  be  any  need  of  us  in  the  North,  that 
the  men  in  command  were  waiting  too  long. 
That  being  the  case  it  would  be  better  for 
them  to  go  home  to  Belfast  and  Agna  and 
I  would  go  to  Dublin.  They  did  not  want  to 
go  from  me,  but  I  said  I  was  speaking  to  them 
as  their  officer  and  they  should  obey.  After  a 
good  deal  of  explaining  they  agreed  to  go 
home  the  next  day. 

I  found  that  if  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  town 
where  my  sister  had  gone,  I  would  need  to  go 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  107 

by  car.  So  a  car  was  hired  for  me  the  next 
day.  Just  before  the  hour  set  for  them  to 
leave,  a  brother  of  one  of  the  girls  came  to 
see  what  had  happened  to  them.  They  all 
went  home  together.  The  car  for  myself  came 
a  little  later  and  in  it  I  piled  as  many  of  the 
Ambulance  supplies  as  I  could.  There  was 
only  room  for  myself  in  the  back,  most  of  the 
room  being  taken  up  with  the  bundles.  We 
started  on  our  journey  about  six  o'clock. 

The  town  to  which  my  sister  had  taken  the 
dispatch  was  called  Gortin;  but  later  I  had 
heard  that  she  was  at  Carrickmore,  since  when 
I  had  not  had  any  news  of  her.  Before  my 
mother  had  left  Belfast  she  had  entrusted 
Agna  to  my  care,  therefore  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  return  without  her.  .While  on  my  way  to 
Carrickmore  to  see  if  she  was  still  there  I  had 
to  pass  through  a  village  whose  streets  were 
thronged  with  soldiers.  As  we  went  out  of 
the  village  and  on  into  the  country  we  met  at 
least  half  a  dozen  motor  trucks  filled  with  sol-- 
diers.  There  were  more  marching  behind,  so 
many  in  fact  that  I  asked  the  driver  if  there 
was  a  training  camp  near  here. 

"No,"  he  said.     "There  is  not.    I'm  afraid 


108  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

those  fellows  spell  trouble."  Conscious  that 
the  soldiers  were  looking  sharply  at  myself  and 
the  bundles,  I  felt  more  than  relieved  when  the 
car  spun  on  out  of  their  sight. 


It  was  about  eight  o'clock  when  we  reached 
the  farm  at  Carrickmore.  Fortunately  the 
man  to  whom  my  sister  had  carried  the 
dispatch  was  there.  As  I  was  telling  him  who 
I  was  and  why  I  had  come,  his  sister  broke  on 
me  and  exclaimed  sharply: 

"My  God!    Why  did  you  come  here?" 

"Why,"  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"Did  you  not  meet  the  soldiers  on  your  way 
here?"  she  asked. 

"Indeed,  I  did.  I  saw  lots  of  them.  What 
are  they  doing  here?"  I  asked,  turning  to  her 
brother. 

"They  raided  this  place  this  afternoon,"  he 
said,  "and  have  only  left  here  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  ago." 

"Raided  the  place!"  I  cried.  "But,  of  course, 
they  found  nothing." 

"They  did,  though,"  he  said.  "They  found 
three  thousand  rounds  of  ammunition." 

"Three  thousand  rounds  1"  I  cried  amazed 

109 


110  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

and  angry.    "Where  did  you  have  it  hidden?" 

"In  the  turf  stack,"  he  replied. 

"In  the  turf  stack!  Good  God!  What  made 
you  put  it  there?  Doesn't  every  one  who  isn't 
a  fool  know  that  that  would  be  one  of  the  first 
places  they  would  look  for  it.  Three  thou  stud 
rounds  of  ammunition  in  a  turf  stack!  Couldn't 
you  have  hidden  it  some  place  else?   Couldn't 

you  have  divided  it?    Couldn't  you  have " 

and  I  broke  off  almost  crying  with  anger  and 
dismay. 

"I  know,  Miss  Connolly,  you  can't  say  or 
think  anything  more  of  the  loss  than  I  do.  But 
I  haven't  been  able  to  look  after  things  this 
past  week.  I'm  in  hiding,  chasing  from  pillar 
to  post  trying  to  find  out  what  is  to  be  done." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked. 
"This  is  Thursday  and  the  men  have  been  fight- 
ing in  Dublin  since  Monday  noon.  What  are 
you  going  to  do?  Think  of  the  numbers  ofi 
men  and  boys,  women  and  girls  who  are  at  this 
minute  in  Dublin  offering  up  their  lives  while 
the  men  of  the  North  are  doing  nothing. 
It's  a  shame!    It's  a  disgrace!" 

"What  could  we  have  done?  The  men  were 
all  dispersed  when  I  received  the  last  dispatch. 
It's  a  different  thing  to  mobilize  men  in  the 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  111 

country  from  what  it  is  in  the  city.  There 
are  a  dozen  or  so  here;  six  miles  off  there  is 
a  score ;  ten  miles  off  there  are  some  more,  and 
so  it  goes  all  over  the  country.  What  were  we 
to  do?" 

"Weren't  you  in  a  terrible  hurry  to  obey 
MacNeiU's  order?  Why  were  the  men  chased 
home  on  Sunday  night  and  Monday  morning? 
They  were  all  gone  when  we  arrived  at  Coal- 
island  on  Monday  at  one  o'clock.  Why  were 
you  in  such  a  hurry  to  demobilize  the  men  when 
their  Easter  holidays  lasted  till  Tuesday?  Did 
you  not  want  them  to  fight?  Were  you  afraid 
that  another  order  would  come  rescinding 
MacNeiU's  ?"  The  questions  poured  from  me 
breathlessly;  I  was  emptying  my  mind  of  all 
the  riddles  and  puzzles  that  had  been  torment- 
ing it. 

"Say  what  you  like,  Miss  Connolly,  what 
can  I  say?"  And  he  spread  his  hands  in  a 
helpless  gesture. 

"It's  a  shame,"  I  commenced  again.  "Why 
did  you  not  tell  the  men  and  give  them  the 
option  of  going  on  to  Dublin?  Why  were  the 
girls  so  honored?  Why,  the  North  can  never 
lift  up  its  head  again.  The  men  in  Dublin  pre- 
paring to  lay  down  their  lives  while  the  North 


112  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

men  were  being  chased  home  by  their  com- 
manders.   It's  awful!" 

"Miss  Connolly,  can't  you  believe  that  I  feel 
it  as  much  as  you  do?  Think  what  it  means  to 
me  that  the  men  in  Dublin  are  being  killed 
while  we  are  here  doing  nothing." 

"The  men  in  Dublin  are  fighting  for 
Ireland.  In  a  short  while  you  may  be  fighting 
up  here — and  why?  Because  the  Ulster 
Division  is  already  quartered  in  Dungannon 
and  Coalisland,  and  are  trying  to  provoke  a 
party  riot  by  parading  the  streets  in  numbers, 
crying  'To  Hell  with  the  Pope.'  There  are 
bunches  of  them  sitting  on  the  doorsteps  of 
Catholic  houses  singing  'Dolly's  Brae'  (the 
worst  of  all  their  songs).  And  if  they  go  be- 
yond bounds  and  those  Catholics  lose  their 
temper,  it  will  be  in  the  power  of  England  to 
say  that  while  one  part  of  the  country  was  in 
rebellion,  another  part  was  occupied  in  re- 
ligious fights.  If  you  had  issued  another  mo- 
bilization order  when  you  received  the  dispatch 
from  Pearse,  that  could  never  happen.  Why 
didn't  you  issue  that  order?" 

"We  were  waiting,  Miss  Connolly " 

"You  were  waiting.  What  for?"  I  broke 
in.     "And   now   you   have  waited  too  long. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  113 

There  has  been  a  flying  column  sent  from  Bel- 
fast, some  two  hundred  strong,  and  it  has 
taken  up  such  positions  that  you  are  prevented 
from  coming  together.  Dungannon,  Coal- 
island,  and  all  around  there  is  completely  cut 
off  from  this  part.  There  is  nothing  now  for 
the  North  men  to  do  but  sit  tight  and  pray 
to  God  that  the  Dublin  men  will  free  their 
country  for  them.  My  God!  A  manly  part! 
Where  is  my  sister?  I  want  to  get  her  and  go 
on  to  Dublin.  I  would  be  ashamed  to  stay 
here  while  the  people  in  Dublin  are  fighting." 

"She  took  a  dispatch  to  Clogher  and  is  still 
there." 

"Is  Clogher  far  from  here?  Can  I  get  there, 
to-night?"  I  asked  him. 

"No,  you  cannot  get  there  to-night;  it  is  too 
far  away.  It  is  over  the  mountains.  Stay 
here  the  night  and  you  can  set  out  in  the 
morning.  Stay  here  as  long  as  you  like,  make 
this  place  your  home,  and  don't  be  too  hard 
on  the  North.  We  acted  as  we  thought  best, 
and  perhaps  we  are  sorry  for  it  now.  It  is 
MacNeilTs  order  that  must  be  blamed.  Good 
night,  Miss  Connolly." 

"Are  you  going  out?  Do  you  not  stop 
here?"  I  asked  as  I  saw  him  gathering  up  his 


114  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

raincoat  and  cap.  He  straightened  up  his  tall 
figure. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  have  not  slept  here 
since  Monday.  I  am  determined  that  I  shall 
not  be  arrested  without  doing  something 
worth  while.  Good  night  again,  and  remem- 
ber that  this  is  your  home  for  as  long  as  you 
wish  to  stay." 

"Good  night,"  I  answered  as  he  left  the 
room.  Then  it  seemed  that  all  the  hopeless- 
ness of  the  world  descended  on  me  as  I  thought 
that  here  was  another  day  gone,  and  I  had  not 
been  able  to  accomplish  anything. 

I  left  the  room  in  a  few  minutes  and  entered 
the  kitchen.  One  side  of  the  large  farm 
kitchen  was  taken  up  by  a  fireplace.  A  large 
pot  that  was  suspended  over  a  huge  turf  fire 
the  light  of  which  reached  across  the  room  and 
danced  and  glistened  upon  the  dishes  that  were 
standing  on  the  top  rack  of  the  dresser.  It 
was  a  sparsely  furnished  kitchen,  for  besides 
the  dresser  I  could  see  only  a  table  placed  un- 
der the  window,  some  farm  implements  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  and  some  benches. 
Except  for  the  blazing  of  the  fire  there  was  no 
light,  and  while  the  ceiling  was  a  roof  of  ruddy 
light,  the  rest  of  the  kitchen  was  kept  in  semi- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  115 

darkness  by  the  farm  laborers,  who  were  sitting 
round  the  fire.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
arrange  and  make  tidy  my  bundles  of  band- 
ages which  had  been  carried  into  the  kitchen 
by  the  driver  of  the  car.  As  I  straightened  up, 
my  glance  fell  upon  one  of  the  men  sitting  by 
the  fire,  whom  to  my  surprise  I  recognized  as 
Lieutenant  Hoskins  of  the  Belfast  Volun- 
teers. 

"Why,  Roiy,"  I  exclaimed.  "What  are  you 
doing  here?" 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked.  "I 
thought  you  were  in  Dublin.  Didn't  you  go 
there  Saturday  night?" 

"I  did,"  I  answered.  "But  I  came  North 
with  a  dispatch  on  Monday.  I  intend  to  go 
to  Dublin  to-morrow.  But  you  didn't  say 
what  you  are  doing  here." 

"There  was  more  chance  of  something  hap- 
pening here — we  could  do  nothing  in  Belfast." 

"There  will  be  nothing  happening  here,"  I 
said.     "That's  why  I  am  going  to  Dublin." 

"Perhaps  I'll  try  and  make  my  way  there 
to-morrow." 

"I'd  advise  you  to,"  I  said  as  I  left  the 
kitchen.  I  was  shown  to  my  room  and  lost  no 
time  in  getting  to  bed. 


116  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

When  my  sister  was  leaving  with  the 
dispatch,  I  took  her  haversack  from  her  so  that 
she  would  not  attract  any  unnecessary  atten- 
tion. That  I  might  look  like  an  ordinary  trav- 
eler I  put  her  haversack  along  with  mine  in 
a  suitcase,  and  that  suitcase  had  been  carried 
to  my  room.  The  events  of  the  night  proved 
that  it  was  a  lucky  thing  for  me  that  it  had 
been  brought  to  the  bedroom.  As  I  looked  at 
it  I  wondered  if  a  suitcase  had  ever  before 
been  packed  in  a  like  manner. 

I  could  not  have  been  asleep  fifteen  minutes 
when  I  was  awakened  by  a  tremendous  rap- 
ping. In  a  few  seconds  the  girl  came  to  my 
room. 

"Miss  Connolly,"  she  said.  "What  will  we 
do?  They  are  here  again."  I  instantly 
thought  of  my  revolver  and  cartridges  which 
I  had  carried  with  me. 

"Listen,"  I  said.  "Put  on  my  coat  and  go 
down  and  open  the  door  before  they  get 
angry." 

"Why  should  I  put  on  your  coat?"  she 
asked. 

"Because  I  have  something  in  it  that  I  do 
not  wish  them  to  see.  Put  it  on,"  I  said,  "and 
hurry  down  to  the  door." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  117 

When  she  had  the  coat  on  she  went  to  one 
of  the  windows  and  opened  it.  She  put  her 
head  out  and  asked  who  was  there.  While 
she  was  parleying  with  the  soldiers  I  remem- 
bered that  I  had  one  hundred  rounds  of  ammu- 
nition in  one  of  the  haversacks  wrapped  up  in 
some  clothing.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and 
opened  the  suitcase.  I  had  to  rummage  be- 
cause I  dare  not  make  a  light.  I  pulled  article 
after  article  out  of  one  of  the  haversacks  in 
hot  haste,  but  it  was  not  there. 

I  turned  to  the  other  one  and  began  search- 
ing it.  I  had  just  felt  it  when  I  heard  a  step 
on  the  stairs.  Grasping  it  in  my  hand  I 
sprung  back  into  the  bed.  I  had  only  ar- 
ranged myself  and  was  lying  down  when  a 
light  was  flashed  in  my  face. 

The  light  was  so  strong  that  I  could  only 
lie  there  and  blink  my  eyes.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  light  was  removed  from  my  face  and 
flashed  about  the  room,  enabling  me  to  see 
that  it  was  held  by  a  District  Inspector  of 
Police,  and  that  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
military  officer  and  some  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Constabulary.  The  D.  I.  switched  the  light 
back  on  my  face  suddenly  and  asked: 

"Are  you  only  waking  up?" 


118  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Just  now,"  I  answered. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "We  heard  that 
some  more  stuff  came  to  this  house  to-day 
and  we  have  come  for  it." 

"It's  not  the  most  reassuring  tiling  in  the 
world  to  have  soldiers  and  police  come  into 
your  room  at  this  time  of  night,"  I  returned. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked.  I  told 
him.  I  did  not  give  a  false  one,  as  I  did  not 
know  whether  he  had  asked  the  girl  downstairs 
my  name  or  not. 

"Where  are  you  from?"  was  his  next  ques- 
tion. 

"Belfast,"  I  replied. 

"Is  that  y our  suitcase?"  he  asked,  pointing 
to  it. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Look  in  it,"  he  said  to  the  officer. 

"There  is  nothing  there  but  my  personal 
property,"  I  said. 

"All  the  same  we  must  look,"  the  D.  I.  said 
to  me,  as  he  went  down  to  his  knees  beside  the 
officer. 

They  gave  it  a  rather  cursory  examination. 
Then  they  opened  the  wardrobe  and  looked 
into  it,  glanced  into  the  drawers  of  the  bureau. 
My  heart  almost  stopped  beating  when  they 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  119 

came  near  the  bed.  What  should  I  do  if  they 
told  me  to  rise?  But  they  only  looked  under 
it,  and  passed  out  into  the  sitting  room  adjoin- 
ing my  bedroom.  After  they  had  examined 
the  room  they  went  downstairs  again.  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  luck.  I  was  silently  con- 
gratulating myself  when  I  heard  their  heavy 
steps  on  the  stairs  again. 

They  came  into  the  room  again.  The  D.  I. 
said,  as  he  poured  the  rays  of  his  lamp  on  my 
face,  "We  have  found  something  downstairs 
which  made  us  come  up  here  to  look  again."  I 
did  not  say  anything  in  reply,  only  lay  there 
and  wondered  to  myself  if  they  had  found  the 
revolver  on  the  girl  and  if  she  had  told  them 
to  whom  it  belonged.  The  military  man  was 
down  or  his  knees  at  my  suitcase  once  more. 

"Did  you  say  that  there  was  nothing  here  but 
your  personal  property?"  asked  the  D.  I.  as 
he  knelt  down  beside  him. 

And  then  began  the  second  search  of  my 
suitcase.  Very  carefully  he  lifted  out  each 
article  and  examined  it.  The  stockings  were 
turned  inside  out  as  a  woman  turns  them  when 
looking  for  holes.  The  reason  for  such  an  act 
I  do  not  know,  save  that  they  might  have 
thought  that  I  had  a  dispatch  concealed  in 


120  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

them.  The  very  fact  that  I  knew  that  there 
was  nothing  incriminating  in  the  suitcase  made 
me  lie  back  in  the  bed  unconcernedly.  Sud- 
denly the  officer  said,  "Ah!"  and  passed  some- 
thing to  the  District  Inspector.  As  they  were 
between  me  and  the  suitcase  I  could  not  see 
what  it  was.  The  District  Inspector  turned 
his  head  over  his  shoulder  and  asked  again, 
"Did  you  say  that  there  was  nothing  here  but 
your  own  personal  property?" 

"I  did,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  what  do  you  call  this?"  he  asked, 
holding  up  two  bundles  wrapped  in  blue  paper. 
"Do  you  call  these  personal  property?" 

"Yes,  they  are,"  I  said,  seeking  hurriedly  in 
my  mind  for  an  explanation.  The  parcel  he  was 
holding  up  for  me  to  see  held  two  dozen  roller 
bandages.  "They're  mine,"  I  said  with  sud- 
den inspiration,  "I  got  them  cheap  at  a  sale." 

The  answer  evidently  tickled  the  two  men, 
for  they  laughed  and  one  said  to  the  other, 
"Just  like  a  woman."  They  next  came  upon 
a  box  of  tea,  sugar,  and  milk  tablets.  The  Dis- 
trict Inspector  asked  as  he  held  it  up,  "Are 
you  going  to  start  a  commissariat  department 
with  these?" 

"No,"  I  answered.    "They  are  no  good." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  121 

Having  completely  overhauled  my  suitcase 
they  next  directed  their  attention  to  the 
bureau  drawers.  Every  piece  of  paper  in  the 
drawers,  letters,  bills,  etc.,  were  read,  and  even 
the  pages  of  books  were  turned  over  to  make 
sure  that  nothing  escaped  them.  They  looked 
under  the  bed  again  and  then  passed  out  to 
the  sitting  room,  where  they  remained  but  a  few 
minutes.  Shortly  afterwards  they  went  down- 
stairs and  then  I  heard  them  going  out  through 
the  door. 

Hardly  were  they  out  of  the  house  when  the 
girl  came  running  to  my  room.  "Get  up,  Miss 
Connolly,"  she  said.  "Get  up  and  go.  They'll 
come  back  and  arrest  you.     Get  up." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said.  "If  they  intended  to 
arrest  me  they  would  have  done  it  now  and  not 
wait  till  the}^  came  back.  You're  excited,  but 
there  is  no  danger." 

"You've  just  got  to  go,  Miss  Connolly,"  she 
said.    "You  can't  stay  here." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  I  said.  "But  don't 
you  know  that  I  am  a  stranger  round  these 
parts,  and  if  I  vent  out  now,  at  half  past  two, 
I'd  wander  away  and  get  lost,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  chances  of  my  falling  into  the  soldiers' 
hands.    I  don't  intend  to  stay  longer  than  the 


122  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

morning,  in  spite  of  your  brother's  invitation." 

"It'll  ruin  this  house  if  there  is  another 
arrested  in  it." 

"Who  has  been  arrested?"  I  asked. 

"That  Belfast  fellow.  He  had  his  revolver, 
ammunition  and  uniform  in  the  room  with 
him.  The  policeman  who  arrested  him  said 
that  he  had  enough  on  him  to  equip  an  army. 
So  you  see,  Miss  Connolly,  you've  got  to  go." 

"No,  I  don't  see,"  I  said.  "I've  no  intention 
to  go  out  into  a  strange,  dark  country  road  at 
this  hour  of  the  night.  It's  no  use  your  talk- 
ing to  me.  I'll  stay  here  till  it's  light  and  then 
I'll  go,  not  before." 

And  I  settled  myself  down  in  the  bed.  She 
went  away,  but  in  a  few  minutes  her  mother 
came  to  the  bedside.  I  was  hurt  to  the  heart, 
I  had  thought  of  this  family  as  patriotic.  I 
could  not  understand  how  they  could  profess 
to  love  the  cause,  and  yet  wish  to  turn  one  of 
its  workers  out  of  the  house.  I  could  not  trust 
myself  to  speak,  so  I  turned  over  and  showed 
only  the  back  of  my  head  to  the  mother  and 
answered  not  a  word.  After  a  shoi '  harangue 
from  the  mother,  I  said,  without  turning  my 
head  and  controlling  my  voice  as  best  I  could: 

"I'll  go  when  it's  light." 


XI 


I  was  down  in  the  kitchen  before  six  o'clock. 
The  girl  had  put  some  bread  and  butter  on  the 
table,  a  cup  of  tea  and  an  egg.  My  heart 
was  so  full  I  could  not  eat  but  I  managed  to 
drink  the  tea.  I  then  turned  to  the  place  where 
I  had  stacked  my  bundles  of  bandages  tliQ 
night  before.  They  were  gone,  even  the  knap- 
sack that  held  my  few  days'  rations. 

".Where  are  all  my  things  gone  to?"  I  asked. 

"The  soldiers  took  them  away  last  night." 

"When?"  I  asked.  "How  did  they  come  to 
see  them?" 

"After  they  came  down  from  your  room  the 
first  time,"  she  replied.  "They  asked  me  who 
owned  those  bundles.  I  said  the  girl  upstairs. 
Then  they  examined  them,  called  in  the  sol- 
diers and  told  them  to  take  those  bundles." 

"Did  they  take  the  haversack  with  my 
rations?" 

"They  took  everything.  And  they  asked  me 
the  name  of  the  girl  upstairs.  And  I  said  I 
didn't  know;  that  you  came  last  night  and 

123 


124  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

asked  for  a  night's  lodging,  and  that  I  never 
turned  any  one  away  from  the  door." 

"You  told  them  that!"  I  cried.  "Did  you 
want  to  make  them  suspect  me?  Do  you 
usually  give  your  guest  room  to  women 
tramps?  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  how  could 
you  be  so  foolish?" 

"Well,"  she  said.  "I  wasn't  going  to  let 
on  that  I  knew  you." 

"What  will  I  do?"  I  said.  "Now  they  will 
be  on  the  watch  for  me.  I  can't  go  to  Clogher 
by  train.    I'll  have  to  walk.    How  far  is  it?" 

"It's  not  five  miles,"  she  answered.  "You 
can  walk  it  easily.  About  two  miles  from  it 
you  will  come  to  a  place  called  Ballygawley, 
and  there  you  can  get  a  tram  that  will  take  you 
to  Clogher." 

"Five  miles,"  I  said.  "I'll  get  there  easily 
before  noon.    Which  way  do  I  go?" 

Before  she  answered  a  woman  came  in  with 
a  message  from  the  girl's  brother.  She  looked 
at  me  suspiciously  till  she  was  told  who  I  was. 
I  told  her  that  I  was  going  to  walk  to  Clogher 
to  get  my  sister  who  was  there,  and  that  after 
that  we  would  make  our  way  to  Dublin. 

"To  Clogher!"  she  said  and  looked  at  me  in 
astonishment. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  125 


""V, 


'Yes,"  I  said.  "Does  your  road  go  near 
Ballygawley?  If  so,  I'll  go  with  you  and  you 
can  point  it  out  to  me." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "But " 

But  I  was  already  on  my  way  to  get  the 
suitcase  and  did  not  wait  to  listen  to  her  objec- 
tions. As  I  came  down  again  I  heard  the  girl 
say: 

"—that's  what  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Well,"  I  said.  "What  I'd  like  to  know  is 
who  the  girls  were  who  brought  the  message 
to  Dublin  from  Tyrone.  There  were  two,  I 
know;  one  was  redhaired  but  it  was  the  other 
delivered  the  message  by  word  of  mouth.  I'd 
like  to  know  who  she  is." 

"I  brought  the  message,"  said  the  girl  who 
belonged  to  the  house. 

"You  brought  the  message,"  I  said  and 
stared  at  her.  "YOU — did  you  know  that  it 
was  a  wrong  one?  Don't  you  know  that  you 
reported  a  false  state  of  affairs?  How  could 
you?" 

"Well  enough,"  she  answered.  "You've 
ruined  this  farm  with  your  cajDers.  The  men 
are  unsettled,  my  two  brothers  are  in  hiding, 
and  not  a  thing  being  done  on  the  farm." 

"Farm,"    I   repeated   and   turned   to   the 


126  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

visitor.  I  saw  her  blush  for  her  acquaintance 
with  the  woman  who  had  no  soul  but  for  a 
farm. 

"Come,"  said  the  visitor  to  me.  "I'll  show 
you  the  road."  And  without  another  word  we 
left.  We  went  silently  on  our  way.  We 
crossed  fields  which  brought  us  out  on  to  a 
road,  along  which  we  walked  for  about  ten 
minutes  till  we  came  to  a  branching  of  it. 
"We'll  go  up  here,"  said  my  guide.  I  saw 
that  it  was  a  kind  of  boreen  leading  up  to  a 
very  small  farm  cottage.  As  soon  as  we  en- 
tered the  woman  turned  to  me  and  said, 
"We're  not  all  like  that" — not  saying  who  or 
what  she  meant.  Then  again  she  said,  "It's 
our  shame  and  disgrace  that  our  men  are  not 
helping  the  men  in  Dublin."  A  young  man 
had  risen  from  his  seat  when  we  entered.  She 
next  spoke  to  him  and  gave  him  a  message. 
"It's  for  him,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  in 
the  direction  we  had  come  from. 

As  she  pointed  to  me  she  said  to  the  young 
man,  "She's  going  to  walk  to  Clogher." 

"To  Clogher,"  he  repeated.  "It's  a  long 
walk." 

"I've  the  day  before  me,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  I've  got  my  message  to  deliver  or 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  127 

I'd  go  part  of  the  way  with  you.    It  wouldn't 
be  so  long  or  lonely  if  you  had  company." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "But  I'll  get  along  all 
right." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you  before  you 
start?"  asked  the  woman  when  he  was  gone. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "You  can  give  me  a  drink  of 
water." 

"Water!"  she  exclaimed.  "Water!  Indeed 
you'll  get  no  water  from  me!  You'll  just  take 
a  long  drink  of  milk.  You'll  need  some  nour- 
ishment to  bring  you  over  the  long  walk  that's 
before  you."  With  that  she  handed  me  a  huge 
bowl  of  milk.  She  stood  by  me  till  I  finished 
it,  then  she  asked  me  if  I  had  anything  with 
me  to  eat  in  case  I  got  hungry  on  the  way. 

"No,"  I  replied.  "The  D.  I.  and  his  men 
took  away  the  bag  containing  my  rations." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you've  got  to  have  some- 
thing." She  commenced  to  butter  some  bis- 
cuits. 

"Don't  bother,"  I  said  to  her.  "I'll  get 
along  all  right  without  that.  I'll  be  in  Clogher 
about  twelve." 

"O,  you  will,"  she  said.  "Well,  just  take 
these  in  case  you  don't.  And  I  don't  think  you 
will." 


128  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

I  took  the  biscuits,  then  lifted  up  my  suit- 
case and  started  to  leave  the  house.  "Wait 
a  minute,"  she  cried.  She  went  into  a  room 
and  returned  with  a  Holy  Water  bottle.  She 
sprinkled  me  with  it  and  said,  "May  God  bless 
and  look  after  you,  and  bring  you  safely  to 
your  journey's  end." 

She  then  pointed  out  the  road  to  me  and  I 
began  my  walk  to  Clogher.  The  road  lay  be- 
tween low,  flat-lying  lands  for  the  better  part 
of  two  miles.  There  was  neither  hedge  nor 
ditch  dividing  the  fields  from  the  road;  nor 
were  there  any  trees  for  shade.  It  was  a  most 
lonely  road;  I  walked  on  for  hours  and  never 
met  a  soul.  The  sun  was  roasting  hot  that  day, 
and  I  was  heavily  laden.  Resides  the  suitcase 
containing  the  two  kits  which  I  was  carrying, 
I  was  wearing  a  tweed  skirt  and  a  raincoat 
over  my  uniform.  As  I  walked,  the  fields  on 
one  side  of  the  road  changed  and  in  their  place 
were  bogs.  An  intolerable  thirst  grew  upon 
me  and  there  was  nothing  with  which  to  slake 
it. 

Gradually  the  road  became  a  mountain  road. 
Had  I  not  been  so  tired,  what  with  the  weight 
of  the  suitcases  and  the  clothes  I  was  wear- 
ing and  the  broiling  sun,  I  could  have  admired 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  129 

the  quiet,  shadeless  road  that  stretched  along 
for  miles  trimming  the  skirt  of  the  mountains. 
The  mountains  sloped  away  so  gently  from 
the  road  as  to  seem  no  more  than  hills. 
Patches  of  olive  green  and  brown  edged  with 
a  brighter  green  rose  one  above  the  other,  each 
one  more  pleasing.  Here  and  there  the  trim- 
ming was  the  golden  furze  or  whin  bushes;  and 
on  towards  the  top  patches  of  purple  and  blue 
told  of  the  presence  of  wild  hyacinths.  And 
above  all  was  the  pure  blue  and  white  of  the 
sky.  Below,  the  mountains,  on  the  left  of  the 
road  stretched  the  bog  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
brown,  brown,  browner,  and  finally  black. 
Here  and  there,  standing  cut  sharply  against 
the  dark  background,  danced  the  ceanawan — 
the  bogrose — disputing  for  place  with  the  ever- 
present  furze.  Yet  all  I  could  think  of  was 
that  I  must  walk  for  miles  on  that  lonely  coun- 
try road,  with  never  a  tree  for  shade  and  never 
a  house  to  get  a  drink  in. 

I  knew  by  the  height  of  the  sun  that  it  was 
nearly  twelve  o'clock,  yet  I  had  not  come  to 
Ballygawley.  In  terror  I  thought  for  an  in- 
stant that  I  had  taken  the  wrong  road,  and 
then  I  remembered  that  the  woman  had  told 


130  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

me  that  there  was  only  the  one  road  until  I 
came  to  Sixmilecross. 

At  a  distance  from  me  and  walking  to- 
wards me  I  saW  an  old  man.  I  tried  to  hurry 
towards  him  but  could  not.  With  every  step 
the  suitcase  was  growing  heavier  and  my  hands 
were  becoming  so  sore  that  to  hold  the  handle 
was  absolute  pain.  And  my  thirst  was  grow- 
ing. I  could  not  understand  how  it  was  that 
I  had  not  met  with  running  water,  it  is  usually 
so  plentiful  in  Ireland.  Finally  my  thirst 
grew  so  clamorous  that  I  knelt  down  by  the 
bog,  lifted  some  of  the  brackish,  stagnant  bog- 
water  in  my  hands  and. drank  it.  Immediately 
I  began  to  think,  "What  if  I  contract  some  ill- 
ness from  drinking  that  water — what  if  I  get 

fever "    And  I  had  visions  of  being  taken 

ill  by  the  roadside  with  no  one  to  look  after  me. 
Rut  the  old  man  was  very  near  me  now,  and 
as  we  came  abreast  I  asked  him,  "Am  I  near 
Ballygawley?" 

"Ballygawley,"  he  replied.  "Daughter  dear, 
you  are  six  weary  long  miles  from  Bally- 
gawley." 

"Six  miles!"  I  thought  in  despair.  "How 
had  the  girl  made  such  a  mistake?" 

I  stumbled  on  till  I  was  completely  worn 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  131 

out  and  not  able  to  go  more  than  a  few  yards 
at  a  time.  And  then,  while  I  sat  by  the  road- 
side feeling  that  I  could  not  rise  again,  I  saw 
two  girls  coming  towards  me  on  bicycles. 
When  they  were  nearer  I  thought  that  I  recog- 
nized a  voice.  And  I  was  right,  for  one  of  the 
cyclists  was  my  sister.  I  struggled  up  from 
the  ditch  and  staggered  out  on  to  the  road  in 
dread  that  they  might  pass  me.  Agna  jumped 
from  her  bicycle  and  let  it  fall  to  the  ground 
as  she  saw  me  swaying.  She  helped  me  back 
to  the  ditch.  All  I  could  say  to  her  at  first 
was,  "I'm  thirsty,  so  thirsty."  She  peeled  an 
orange  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  knew  that  I  was 
babbling  all  the  time,  but  neither  of  us  could 
remember  what  I  had  been  saying  when  we 
tried  to  think  of  it  afterwards.  I  did  not  know 
that  I  had  been  crying  till  Agna  said,  "Don't 
cry,  Nora.  Here,  let  me  wipe  your  eyes." 
Then  I  saw  where  the  tears  had  splashed  down 
on  my  raincoat  and  felt  that  my  cheeks  were 
wet.  I  suppose  I  was  weeping  from  sheer 
physical  exhaustion. 

"Weren't  we  lucky  to  come  this  road, 
Teasie?  This  is  my  sister  Nora,"  said  my  sis- 
ter to  the  girl  who  accompanied  her.  "We 
were  going  to  take  the  lower  road,"  she  said, 


132  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

turning  to  me,  "but  we  were  told  that  although 
this  was  the  longer  it  was  the  easier  for  cycling. 
And  now,  I'm  glad  we  took  the  longer  one,  for 
if  we  hadn't  we  would  never  have  met  you." 

"Where  were  you  going?"  I  asked. 

She  told  me. 

"Why,"  I  cried,  "that  is  the  place  I  have 
left." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Agna.  "Then  we  needn't 
go.  You  can  tell  us  the  news.  We  wanted 
to  find  out  what  happened  during  the  raid  yes- 
terday." 

As  I  sat  there  on  the  ditch  I  told  them  all 
that  had  happened  from  the  capture  of  the 
three  thousand  rounds  of  ammunition  to  my 
own  expediences.  When  I  finished  Agna  took 
the  suitcase  and  balanced  it  on  her  bicycle  and 
said : 

"We  may  as  well  go  back  now." 

"I'll  cycle  on  in  to  Ballygawley,"  said 
Teasie,  "and  find  out  when  there  will  be  a 
train  this  afternoon.  You  can  come  on  after 
me." 

"How  far  are  we  from  Ballygawley?"  I 
asked. 

"About  two  miles,"  she  answered. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Agna,  when  she  saw  my 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  133 

expression    at   that   news.     "We   will   go    so 
slowly  that  you'll  never  notice  it." 

The  three  of  us  went  slowly  along  the  road, 
Agna  and  Teasie  taking  turns  at  carrying  the 
suitcase.  At  a  turn  in  the  road  Teasie  mounted 
her  bicycle  and  rode  off.  After  we  had  walked 
a  long  distance  I  said: 

"Agna,  I  can't  walk  any  further.  I'll  have 
to  sit  down." 

I  sat  for  quite  a  while  till  Agna  said,  "Try 
again,  Nora.  Keep  at  it  as  long  as  you  can. 
When  we  get  to  Ballygawley  you'll  not  have 
any  more  walking  to  do." 

"Wait  a  while,"  I  answered. 

While  we  were  sitting  Teasie  returned. 

"You'll  be  in  plenty  of  time,"  she  said. 

I  stood  up  and  we  started  off  again.  When 
we  arrived  at  the  outskirts  of  Ballygawley 
Teasie  said,  "I  called  in  at  a  house  I  knew 
and  they  are  making  tea  for  us.  You'll  be 
refreshed  after  it." 

It  was  into  a  shop  we  went  and  in  a  room 
back  of  it  a  table  was  laid,  and  tea  was  ready 
for  us.  I  drank  the  tea  thirstily  but  was  too 
tired  to  eat,  although  various  things  were 
pressed  on  me.  When  tea  was  over  Teasie 
said  to  Agna: 


134  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"We'll  go  on  our  bicycles  and  meet  Nora  at 
the  station  of  Augher.  That,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  me,  "is  the  station  before  Clogher.  I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  get  off  there  than 
in  the  station  at  Clogher.  Every  one  would 
see  you  and  they  would  be  making  all  the 
guesses  in  the  world  as  to  who  you  are.  The 
police  would  see  you,  too,  as  you  would  have 
to  go  past  the  police  station.  If  you  get  off 
at  Augher  you  can  cross  the  fields  to  our  place 
without  any  one  seeing  you.  That's  all  right, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

They  rode  away.  A  young  lad  took  my 
suitcase  to  the  station  for  me  and  waited  till 
the  train  came.  The  train  was  only  the  size 
of  a  trolley  but  had  the  dignified  title  of  the 
Clogher  Valley  Railway.  I  sat  in  the  corner 
and  closed  my  eyes.  I  opened  them  at  every 
stop  to  see  if  there  was  any  sight  of  the  girls. 
Rut  it  was  not  till  the  conductor  called  out, 
"Next  stop  Augher,"  that  I  had  any  glimpse 
of  them.  Over  the  hedge  that  divided  the  rails 
from  the  road  I  saw  Agna's  black  curly  head 
bobbing  up  and  down  and  caught  a  smile  from 
under  Teasie's  big-brimmed  hat.  They  were 
peddling  for  all  they  were  worth  in  an  attempt 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  135 

not  to  be  too  far  behind  the  train  in  arriv- 
ing at  Auglier. 

I  waited  at  the  station  for  about  ten  minutes 
before  they  came.  They  jumped  off  their 
bicycles ;  and  we  commenced  to  walk  along  the 
side  of  the  rails.  About  fifteen  minutes  after 
we  crossed  over  into  a  field.  It  was  a  stiff 
piece  of  work  for  the  girls  to  push  their  bicycles 
through  the  fields  and  lift  them  over  hedges. 
When  we  had  gone  through  four  fields  we 
commenced  to  climb  a  hill.  Near  the  top  of 
the  hill  we  clambered  over  another  hedge  and 
crossed  one  more  field  before  we  arrived  at 
the  farm  which  was  Teasie's  home.  Teasie's 
father  and  mother  had  made  it  a  home  for 
Agna  since  she  arrived  at  the  town;  and  to 
me  they  also  extended  a  very  kindly  welcome. 

"She  has  walked  all  the  way  from  Carrick- 
more,"  said  Teasie  to  her  mother.  "We  met 
her  two  miles  outside  of  Ballygawley." 

"Did  you  walk  all  that  distance?"  asked 
Airs.  Walsh. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "I  don't  see  how  it 
took  me  so  long  to  walk  it,  I'm  usually  a  good 
walker." 

"When  did  you  start?"  she  asked  me. 

"Before  eight,"  I  answered. 


136  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"I  think  you  did  very  well  to  walk  it  in  one 
day,"  she  returned.  "Agna  and  Teasie  were 
going  to  cycle  there  and  stay  over  night  be- 
cause it  was  such  a  long  ride." 

"I  was  told  that  it  wasn't  five  miles,"  I  said. 

"Five  miles!"  cried  the  mother.  "It's  fif- 
teen if  it's  one,  and  a  bad  road  at  that.  You'll 
want  to  rest  after  it.  Take  her  into  a  bed- 
room, girls,  and  let  her  lie  down." 

The  girls  brought  me  to  a  bedroom  and  gave 
me  cool  water  to  bathe  my  face  and  hands  and 
feet.  Then  they  ordered  me  to  go  to  bed.  But 
although  I  went  to  bed  I  did  not  sleep. 

I  had  been  lying  there  for  about  two  hours 
when  Agna  peeped  in  to  see  if  I  was  awake. 

"Come  in,"  I  said. 

"Nora,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  was  her 
first  question. 

"I  am  going  to  Dublin  as  soon  as  we  can 
and  you,  of  course,  are  going  with  me." 

"I  had  my  mind  made  up  to  try  and  get 
there  to-morrow  when  we  came  back,  but  I 
am  glad  you  are  here,  for  now  we  can  be  to- 
gether and  won't  have  to  worry  about  one 
another."  She  was  speaking  in  her  usual 
breathless  fashion.     "I'm  afraid  we  can't  go 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  137 

to-night,"  she  said.  "Did  you  hear  that  there 
is  righting  in  Ardee?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  did  not  hear  that; 
but  if  there  is,  we'll  go  there.  It's  on  our  way 
to  Dublin.  The  men  who  are  fighting  will 
probably  make  their  way  to  Dublin.  If  we  can 
catch  up  with  them  we  will  be  safer  and  more 
sure  of  getting  there.  Find  out  if  there  is  a 
train  to-night." 

She  went  out  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes. 

"No,"  she  said.  "There  is  no  train  to-night, 
but  there  is  one  leaving  at  five  minutes  to  six 
in  the  morning." 

"Well,"  I  said.  "I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
wait  for  that." 

We  caught  the  five  minutes  to  six  train  in 
the  morning.  It  brought  us  to  a  junction 
where  we  took  tickets  for  Dundalk. 

"You're  going  to  a  dangerous  place,"  said 
the  ticket  agent. 

"We  won't  mind  that,"  we  replied. 

When  we  arrived  at  Dundalk  the  station 
was  full  of  soldiers  and  constabulary.  We 
hurried  along  out  of  the  station  so  as  not  to 
attract  attention.  Agna  went  back  and  asked 
a  porter  if  she  could  get  a  train  to  Dublin. 
The  porter  told  her  that  the  only  train  going 


138  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

there  was  a  military  one,  and  that  the  line 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  military.  "There's  no 
telling  when  there  will  be  a  train,"  he  said. 

It  was  then  about  one  o'clock.  "Come 
along,"  I  said  to  Agna.  "We  will  look  for  a 
restaurant  and  decide  what  we  will  do  while 
we  are  eating."  We  walked  down  the  street 
looking  for  a  restaurant.  At  the  foot  of  the 
street  we  saw  one,  a  very  small  place.  Just  at 
the  restaurant  the  street  curved,  and  around 
the  curve  we  saw  that  a  barricade  had  been 
erected  by  the  police  authorities.  Luckily  we 
did  not  have  to  pass  it  to  get  to  the  restaurant. 
When  we  had  entered  and  had  given  our  order 
to  the  proprietress,  she  said  that  it  would  take 
some  time — would  we  mind  waiting?  We  as- 
sured her  that  we  would  not  mind  waiting  and 
went  into  the  parlor  to  talk  over  our  situation. 

The  first  decision  arrived  at  was,  that  as 
we  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  villages  and 
towns  on  the  road  to  Dublin  and  could  not  hire 
a  car  to  take  us  to  any  of  them,  it  would  be 
necessary  for  us  to  walk.  Our  next  decision 
was  that  we  would  have  to  abandon  our  suit- 
case as  it  would  be  likely  to  attract  attention. 
In  order  to  carry  out  the  second  I  told  Agna 
that  she  must  go  out  to  buy  some  brown  paper 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  139 

and  string.  Also,  that  while  she  was  doing  so 
she  must  find  out  if  we  would  have  to  pass 
the  barricade  to  get  to  the  Dublin  road.  The 
reason  why  I  sent  Agna  on  this  business,  and 
did  not  go  myself,  was  that  Agna  was  so  child- 
ish looking  that  no  one  would  suspect  her  of 
trying  to  get  to  Dublin.  Then  again  I  knew 
that  I  could  trust  her  to  find  any  information 
necessary  to  us ;  she  had  been  a  girl  scout  and 
had  learned  the  habit  of  observation.  Also, 
her  accent  was  more  strongly  Northern  than 
mine. 

With  a  parting  adjuration  from  me  not  to 
be  too  long  lest  I  become  anxious,  Agna  went 
out  on  her  errand.  As  she  reached  the  door 
the  proprietress  came  out  of  a  room  and  said, 
"Are  you  going  out,  little  girl?" 

"Yes,"  said  Agna.  "I  am  going  out  to  get 
a  paper." 

"Will  you  do  a  message  for  me  while  you 
are  out?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Agna.     "What  is  it?" 

"Do  you  know  the  town?"  asked  the  woman. 

"No,"  said  Agna.  "I  haven't  been  in  it 
this  long  time."  (She  had  never  been  in  it 
before.) 

"Well,"   said  the  woman.     "I  had   better 


140  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

come  to  the  door  and  show  you  the  place  I 
want  you  to  go  to."  She  did  so  and  gave 
Agna  a  message  to  the  butcher's.  Agna  was 
glad  to  do  the  message  because  if  she  were 
stopped  now  and  asked  where  she  was  going 
to,  she  could  give  a  definite  answer.  She  left 
the  door  and  walked  towards  the  barricade. 
The  policeman  on  duty  there  did  not  stop  her 
as  she  walked  through.  The  barricade  wa9 
formed  simply  of  country  carts  drawn  across 
the  roadway,  leaving  room  for  only  one  vehicle 
to  pass  through,  and  it  was  at  this  space  that 
the  policeman  stood.  As  I  sat  by  the  window, 
I  saw  the  policeman  stop  and  examine  cyclists, 
automobilists,  and  all  other  vehicles  that  were 
passing  through.  The  barricade  was  on  the 
road  running  from  Dublin  to  Belfast. 

Within  twenty  minutes  Agna  returned. 
She  came  into  the  parlor  and  gave  me  a  bundle 
of  brown  paper  and  string,  and  then  went  out 
to  deliver  up  her  other  message.  She  came 
back  quickly  and  began  to  tell  me  the  result 
of  her  observations.  The  best  thing  was  that 
we  were  on  the  right  side  of  fche  barricade  and 
we  should  not  have  to  pass  it  when  we  started 
out.  But  her  next  bit  of  information  was  not 
so  pleasant;  it  was  that  according  to  the  auto- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  141 

mobile  signs  there  were  fifty-six  miles  to  Dub- 
lin. Still,  nothing  daunted,  we  began  to 
transfer  our  kits  from  the  suitcase  to  the  brown 
paper.  When  we  had  finished  we  had  two 
tidy-looking  bundles  much  more  convenient  to 
carry  than  the  suitcase. 

While  we  were  eating  our  dinner  the  ques- 
tion arose  as  to  what  we  should  do  with  the 
suitcase.  We  settled  it  by  asking  the  pro- 
prietress to  take  care  of  it  till  we  came  back 
from  Carlingford.  She  was  quite  willing  to 
oblige  us,  she  said,  as  Agna  had  been  so  oblig- 
ing to  her.  I  then  paid  the  bill  and  we  left 
the  restaurant.  I  felt  rather  badly  at  leaving 
the  suitcase  behind  me,  as  it  had  accompanied 
me  for  some  ten  thousand  miles  of  my  travels ; 
it  was  like  abandoning  an  old  friend. 


XII 

It  was  about  two-thirty  on  Saturday  when 
we  started  to  walk  from  Dundalk  to  Dublin, 
and  when  it  began  to  grow  dark  Ave  were  still 
walking.  While  we  were  discussing  the  prob- 
lem of  where  to  spend  the  night,  we  came  upon 
a  barricade.  We  were  in  a  quandary.  What 
were  we  to  do?  We  slowed  up  in  our  walk- 
ing but  that  was  no  use;  we  were  bound  to 
pass  it  eventually — or  be  detained.  We  had 
not  the  slightest  idea  as  to  what  we  should  do. 
We  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  next  vil- 
lage, so  we  could  not  say  that  we  were  going 
there.  We  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  the 
village  we  were  in!  What  should  we  do?  If 
we  were  stopped  and  searched — I  had  my  re- 
volver and  ammunition  and  Agna  wore  her 
uniform  under  her  coat  and  skirt — enough 
evidence  to  have  us  arrested.  However,  we 
put  on  a  brave  face  and  stepped  forward 
bravely  towards  the  barricade.  About  six 
yards  from  it  we  encountered  two  strong  wires 

142 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  143 

which  were  stretched  across  the  entire  width 
of  the  road,  one  reaching  to  the  chin  and  the 
other  to  the  knees.  To  give  the  impression 
that  we  had  passed  that  way  before  and  that 
we  knew  all  about  the  wires,  we  ducked  our 
heads  under  the  high  wire  and  put  our  legs 
over  the  lower  one,  then  continued  our  walk  to 
the  barricade. 

It  was  in  charge  of  a  corporal's  guard.  As 
we  came  abreast  the  soldiers,  evidently  think- 
ing that  we  were  country  girls  doing  our  Sat- 
urday's marketing,  made  some  remark,  in  a 
broad  Belfast  accent,  about  carrying  our  bun- 
dles for  us.  In  an  accent  broader  than  theirs, 
Agna  gave  them  some  flippant  answer  at 
which  they  roared  with  laughter;  and  while 
they  were  laughing  we  passed  on.  Further 
on  we  came  to  the  village  proper.  Not  until 
we  saw  the  sign  over  the  Post  Office — "Dun- 
leer  P.  O." — did  we  know  the  name  of  the 
village  through  which  we  were  passing. 

As  we  walked  it  grew  darker.  "What  will 
we  do — where  will  we  spend  the  night?"  I  said 
to  Agna.  "There  are  no  hotels  about  he±<b, 
and  if  there  were  we  could  not  go  to  them 
as  we  would  have  to  register.  If  we  ask  at 
the  cottages  for  a  night's  lodging  they  may 


1M  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

become  suspicious.  If  we  walk  all  night  we 
may  meet  military  or  police  patrols,  and  that 
would  mean  that  we  would  be  sent  to  Armagh 
Jail  instead  of  going  to  Dublin.  What  will 
we  do?" 

"O,  pick  out  a  nice  field  and  spend  the  night 
there,"  said  Agna  airily. 

"It  looks  as  if  that  is  just  what  we'll  have 
to  do,"  I  said  ruefully.  "Come  on  and  pick 
one  before  it  gets  too  dark." 

We  heard  a  dog  barking  further  down  the 
road — that  was  the  only  sign  of  life.  We 
judged  that  it  was  about  nine  o'clock  and 
that  every  one  was  in  bed.  There  was  a  path 
that  turned  to  the  right  off  the  road  which 
we  took  and  walked  along  for  about  one  hun- 
dred yards.  Then  we  clambered  over  the 
hedge  and  into  the  field.  It  looked  as  if  we 
had  chosen  a  good  place  for  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  sort  of  dell  covered  with  grass 
and  heather.  We  searched  and  found,  as  we 
thought,  the  softest  place.  Everything  around 
us  was  so  still  that  we  felt  compelled  to  talk 
in  whispers.  We  could  feel  the  darkness 
descending  on  us  as  we  sat  there,  forgetting 
our  weariness  in  the  novelty  of  the  situation. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  145 

We  had  been  silent  for  a  long  time  when 
Agna  said,  "To-morrow  will  be  Sunday." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "We'll  look  queer  carrying 
bundles  through  the  villages  on  a  Sunday." 

"So  we  will,"  said  Agna.  "Look,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "Why  couldn't  we  put  on  every- 
thing we  can.  It  will  make  us  fatter  but  it 
will  make  the  bundles  a  respectable  size.  And 
we'll  be  warmer  to-night,"  she  added. 

Her  last  remark  decided  me.  I  had  been 
growing  colder  every  minute  I  sat  there  and 
any  suggestion  to  relieve  me  was  welcome. 

"All  right,"  I  said.  "Let's  start  and  put 
them  on." 

We  opened  the  bundles  and  were  very  busy 
for  some  time.  When  we  had  finished  there 
was  twice  the  amount  of  clothing  on  than  we 
had  when  we  begun.  We  looked  at  each  other, 
feeling  bulky. 

"I  hope  my  coat  will  go  on  me,"  said  Agna 
as  she  began  to  put  it  on.  "There  now,  I've 
got  everything  on  me  except  my  towels,  and 
brush  and  comb.     Oh,  and  my  putties." 

"You  can  put  them  in  your  coat  pocket,"  I 
said. 

"I've  got  safety  pins,  roller  bandages,  my 


146  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

handkerchiefs  and  my  purse  in  them  so  there's 
no  room  there." 

'Tut  them  in  your  raincoat  pocket."  She 
did  so  and  stood  up  to  inspect  herself. 

"O  Lordy,"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  an  imita- 
tion umbrella."  Then  she  turned  her  atten- 
tion to  me. 

"How  did  you  get  on?"  she  asked. 

"Like  you,"  I  replied.  "Only  I've  a  pair 
of  stockings  left." 

"Put  them  on  you?"  she  said.  "What's  the 
use  of  getting  boots  two  sizes  too  big  for  you, 
if  you  can't  wear  two  pairs  of  stockings  when 
you  want  to?" 

I  had  forgotten  that  I  could  not  get  my  size 
when  I  was  buying  my  marching  boots,  and 
was  compelled  to  take  a  pair  two  sizes  too 
large.     I  put  the  stockings  on. 

"I  never  felt  so  big  and  heavy  in  my  life 
before,"  I  remarked. 

"You'll  be  used  to  it  by  morning,"  she  said 
consolingly.     "Lie  down  and  go  to  sleej)." 

"Sleep — "  I  commenced  when  she  inter- 
rupted me  to  ask,  "Nora,  do  you  think  there 
are  any  earwigs  here?  They  might  get  into 
our  ears  when  we  are  asleep." 

"Earwigs,"    I   repeated.     "I    don't   know, 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  147 

But  there's  bound  to  be  other  insects  and  they 
would  just  as  easily  get  into  our  ears  as  ear- 
wigs." 

"What  will  we  do?"  she  asked  anxiously,  for 
she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  sleep.  I  looked 
about  and  saw  the  towels. 

"Put  them  around  our  heads,"  I  said,  point- 
ing to  them.  So  we  each  took  a  towel  and 
pinned  it  around  our  heads  to  keep  out  wan- 
dering insects  while  we  slept.  But  we  need 
not  have  worried  about  what  might  happen  to 
us  while  we  slept,  for  we  did  not  sleep  that 
night. 

As  we  lay  there  we  could  see  the  stars  come 
out  one  by  one,  yet  we  could  not  sleep.  The 
quietness  of  the  place  kept  us  listening  expect- 
antly for  we  knew  not  what.  A  heavy  mist 
began  to  cover  the  field  and  wrapped  itself 
about  us  till  our  clothes  were  dampened 
through  and  through.  For  the  first  time,  I 
think,  we  were  physically  aware  of  the  num- 
ber of  bones  in  our  bodies,  for  each  one  seemed 
to  be  dancing  to  a  tune  of  its  own.  Our  teeth 
were  chattering  so  that  we  could  not  speak. 
In  an  effort  to  keep  ourselves  warm  we  lay 
close  together  with  our  arms  round  each  other. 
But  our  efforts  were  of  no  use;  we  could  not 


148  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

sleep  nor  could  we  keep  ourselves  warm.  We 
gave  the  struggle  up  and  huddling  close  to 
the  ditch  we  sat  and  waited  for  the  dawn. 

After  an  infinity  of  time  the  dawn  came. 
Far  off  at  the  furthermost  edge  of  the  field 
we  saw  a  streak  of  gray.  As  we  watched  it 
gradually  widening  we  heard  a  cock  crow  in 
the  distance.  Under  the  descending  light  the 
fields  seemed  a  glistening  sea  and  our  tweed 
skirts  as  if  sprinkled  with  diamonds.  The 
birds  began  to  awaken  and  to  chirrup  in  the 
hedges.  For  all  we  could  see  or  hear,  the 
birds  and  ourselves  were  the  only  stirring,  liv- 
ing beings. 

We  sat  on  waiting  for  time  to  pass.  As  we 
did  not  have  a  watch  with  us  we  gauged  the 
time  by  the  sky.  The  distance  between  us 
and  Drogheda  we  knew  to  be  less  than  eight 
miles ;  and  there  was  a  possibility  that  we  might 
get  a  train  from  Drogheda  to  some  of  the 
local  stations.  But  as  we  were  not  sure  we 
decided  to  recommence  our  walk,  so  that  we 
would  be  all  the  earlier  on  our  way  to  Dublin. 
Willi  this  thought  in  our  minds  we  rose  stiffly 
and  plodded  down  the  path  to  the  main  road. 
We  really  did  not  feel  tired.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  we  were  anxious  to  have  as  many  adven- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  149 

tures  and  experiences  as  possible  to  tell  our 
father  when  we  reached  Dublin.  We  pictured 
ourselves  sitting  on  his  knees,  as  we  had  often 
done  before,  telling  him  everything,  watching 
for  the  ever-ready  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  saw 
him  give  the  quick  throwback  of  his  head,  when 
we  came  to  the  more  laughable  parts  of  our 
story.  It  was  this  picture  that  helped  us  over 
the  hard  parts  of  our  journey.  As  we  went 
along  the  road  to  Drogheda  our  conversation 
consisted  mainly  of — "Wait  till  we  tell  Papa 
this— "  or,  "What  will  Papa  say  to  that—" 
and,  "Won't  he  laugh  when  we  tell  him — ,"  so 
we  whiled  away  the  time,  fixing  firmly  in  our 
minds  the  most  amusing  parts  of  our  journey. 
It  was  not  until  we  were  within  two  miles  of 
Drogheda  that  we  met  with  any  one  on  the 
road.  The  first  person  we  saw  was  a  cyclist, 
next  we  saw  a  man  and  woman  going  to  milk 
the  cows.  And  then  as  we  went  further  along 
the  road  we  saw  many  more  people  wending 
their  wav  to  town.  At  last,  we  came  to 
Drogheda.  It  was  practically  deserted — a 
few  milk-carts  and  a  couple  of  policemen  were 
all  that  we  met  as  we  proceeded  into  town. 
Then  a  church  bell  began  to  ring.  We  fol- 
lowed the  sound  and  soon  had  joined  a  crowd 


150  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

that  was  hurrying  to  church.  We  were  in 
time  for  seven  o'clock  Mass. 

After  Mass  we  wandered  about  a  little  hop- 
ing to  find  a  place  where  we  could  get  some- 
thing to  eat,  also  to  find  the  road  to  Dublin. 
On  account  of  it  being  Sunday  and  so  early 
in  the  morning  there  was  no  place  open.  Al- 
though hungry  we  were  not  as  much  annoyed 
at  the  result  of  our  search  for  food  as  con- 
tented when  we  came  upon  the  road  to  Dub- 
lin. As  we  walked  on  I  saw  the  railway  sta- 
tion. A  thought  struck  me,  perhaps  we  can 
get  a  train  now.  I  turned  to  Agna  and  said, 
"Go  up  to  the  station  and  ask  if  there  will  be 
a  train  to  Skerries  to-day." 

In  about  fifteen  minutes  she  returned  and 
said  there  would  be  no  trains  running  but  the 
military  trains.  Then  once  again  we  started 
on  our  tramp. 

Agna  complanied  of  hunger,  and  I  was 
none  the  less  hungry.  We  had  not  eaten  since 
one-thirty  the  day  before.  "Would  it  be  any 
use,  do  you  think,"  I  asked,  turning  to  Agna, 
"to  call  at  some  of  the  cottages  and  ask  them 
to  make  some  tea  for  us?" 

"It  might  be  worth  trying,  anyway,"  she 
replied. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  151 

"Well,"  I  said.  "I'll  wait  till  it  gets  a  little 
later  then  I'll  go  to  some  of  the  cottages  and 
ask." 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  I  first  ven- 
tured to  a  cottage.  A  woman  opened  the  door 
to  my  knock,  she  had  a  bonnet  on  and  was 
draping  a  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 

"We  have  been  walking  since  early  morn- 
ing," I  said,  "and  want  to  know  if  you  will 
make  us  a  cup  of  tea." 

"I  would,"  she  replied,  "only  I've  barely 
time  to  get  to  Mass.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't 
miss  Mass.     I've  to  walk  to  Drogheda." 

"No,"  I  said.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  miss 
Mass." 

She  came  to  the  gate  and  bade  me  a  cordial 
good-by.  I  tried  two  or  three  cottages  after 
that,  but  from  them  all  I  had  the  same  story — ■ 
they  were  all  going  to  Mass,  so  we  had  to  go 
without  our  breakfast. 

Just  outside  Drogheda  we  saw  a  milestone 
bearing  the  legend  "Dublin  25  miles."  And 
from  then  on  the  only  excitement  of  our  jour- 
ney was  to  see  who  would  be  the  first  to  spy 
a  milestone.  When  we  saw  a  milestone 
marked  "Dublin  18  miles"  we  were  exhilarated 
— -Dublin  seemed  only  a  few  steps  away. 


152  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Sunday  was,  if  any  thing,  warmer  than  the 
preceding  day,  and  our  double  outfit  made  us 
dreadfully  uncomfortable.  I  knew  that  it  was 
not  the  heat  or  the  long  walk,  or  the  two  pairs 
of  stockings  that  was  responsible  for  the  burn- 
ing pain  in  my  feet.  My  feet  were  burning 
me  as  never  before.  Agna  had  great  faith  in 
liniment.  She  likes  to  take  it  with  her  when 
she  goes  for  a  long  walk;  she  says  it  takes 
the  pain  and  stiffness  from  her  muscles. 
When  v,  e  were  making  our  preparations  the 
night  before  she  had  "linimented"  herself  as 
she  calls  the  operation.  I  had  had  no  pain  or 
tiredness,  but  the  soles  of  my  feet  were  sore, 
and  Agna,  in  her  unfailing  faith  in  the  bottle, 
had  "linimented"  them,  overruling  whatever 
objections  I  had.  And  now,  I  was  suffering 
torments — the  liniment  was  burning  its  way 
into  my  flesh,  made  tender  by  the  two  pairs  of 
stockings,  heavy  boots,  and  long  march.  At 
last,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  so  I  said  to 
Agna,  "I  must  get  my  boots  and  stockings 
off — I'll  have  to  get  some  relief  or  I'll  go 
mad."  | 

I  walked  towards  the  hedge  that  was  divid- 
ing the  road  from  the  fields  and  looked  through 
the    branches.     I    saw    that    the    land    was 


EOIN   MACNEILL 

Professor  of  Early  Irish  History,  Head  of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  whose  demobiliza- 
tion order  "broke  the  back  of  the  rebellion,"  according  to  the  report  of  the  British 
Royal  Commission       Yetjjn  spite  of  this  he  was  sentenced  to  prison  for  life. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  153 

plowed.  It  looked  so  cool  and  comforting 
that  I  decided  to  go  in  to  cool  my  feet.  We 
walked  along  till  we  saw  a  gap  in  the  hedge. 
We  went  through  it  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
shady  corner  of  the  field.  I  lost  no  time  in 
pulling  off  my  shoes  and  stockings,  and  then 
I  thrust  my  feet  deep  down  in  the  cool,  brown 
earth. 

How  long  we  sat  there  I  do  not  know  for 
we  both  dozed  off.  Then  we  heard  a  distant 
dull  booming  which  must  have  awakened  us. 
Agna  must  have  wakened  at  the  same  time  as 
myself  for  she  was  listening,  her  head  turned 
away  from  me,  and  her  ear  cocked  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  booming  came.  The 
booming  went  on  at  regular  intervals.  At 
last,  Agna  turned  to  me,  her  eyes  widened  and 
a  thought  written  on  her  face  that  she  did  not- 
dare  to  express  in  words. 

"What  is  it,  Nora?"  she  asked. 

I  shook  my  head.  "It's  in  Dublin,"  I 
answered. 

"There  might  be  fighting  in  the  Irish  Sea," 
she  hazarded. 

"No,  it's  in  Dublin,"  I  insisted.  We  were 
silent  for  a  while,  a  great  dread  growing  in 
our  hearts.     Agna  broke  the  silence. 


154  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"Dublin,  Nora,"  she  said.     "And  we  are — " 

"We  are  eighteen  miles  away  from  Dublin," 
I  said. 

When  we  had  seen  the  last  milestone  that 
told  us  that  we  were  eighteen  miles  away  from 
Dublin,  we  thought  we  were  very  near;  but 
now,  our  thought  was  how  very  far  away  we 
were  from  there. 

The  booming  continued.  We  could  picture 
our  friends,  our  comrades,  boys  and  girls 
fighting  with  rifles  against  those  big  guns 
whose  booming  could  be  heard  eighteen  miles 
away. 

"We  must  not  lose  a  minute.  We  must 
hurry,  hurry,  hurry  till  we  get  to  Dublin,"  I 
said,  and  saw  that  unconsciously  I  had  been 
putting  on  my  shoes  and  stockings,  and  that  I 
was  ready  for  the  march. 

In  the  torment  of  our  minds  as  to  what  those 
big  guns  might  be  doing  at  the  moment  in 
Dublin,  the  pain,  the  weariness  and  the  hunger 
of  our  bodies  went  unnoticed.  We  swung 
along  as  best  we  could,  trying  to  keep  to  the 
beat  of  a  march,  and  determined  to  be  in 
Dublin  before  dark.  We  entered  a  village. 
Usually  when  we  came  to  a  village  we  walked 
at  an  ordinary  pace  so  as  not  to  attract  notice 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  155 

by  an  appearance  of  haste.  But  this  time,  in 
our  impatience  to  be  in  Dublin,  we  threw  all 
cautiousness  to  the  winds  and  went  as  quickly 
as  we  could.  We  passed  through  the  village; 
but  just  as  the  main  street  ended  and  the 
Dublin  road  began  again,  we  saw  a  barricade. 
Like  the  others  it  was  made  of  country  carts, 
but  unlike  them  it  was  guarded  by  both  police 
and  soldiers.  They  seemed  to  be  more  par- 
ticular at  this  one  for  we  saw  them  stop  a 
cyclist  and  give  his  bicycle  a  most  thorough 
examination.  They  looked  under  the  saddle, 
and  into  the  tool-bag;  and  then  they  turned 
their  attention  to  the  rider.  His  pockets  were 
turned  out  one  by  one.  I  suppose  they  were 
looking  to  see  if  he  carried  a  dispatch. 

After  him  came  two  boys  who  were  stopped 
as  they  were  walking  past.  We  were  almost 
at  the  barricade  by  this  time  and  we  saw  close 
beside  it  a  restaurant.  As  usual  they  had  left 
a  space  for  pedestrians  to  pass  through  and 
unfortunately  for  us,  the  door  of  the  restau- 
rant was  on  the  other  side  of  the  barricade.  It 
was,  if  I  might  use  the  phrase,  next  door  to  it. 
But  the  boys,  who  had  just  been  stopped  by 
the  military,  unintentionally  did  us  a  good 
turn,  for  they  began  to  resist  being  searched. 


156  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

While  they  were  talking  indignantly,  and 
struggling  with  the  soldiers,  Agna  and  I 
slipped  through  into  the  restaurant.  When 
we  had  asked  for  something  to  eat  we  went 
to  the  window  to  see  what  was  the  outcome 
of  the  struggle.  To  our  surprise,  we  saw  the 
boys  laughing  and  chatting  with  the  soldiers 
who  were  examining  their  pockets. 

We  did  not  realize  how  hungry  we  were  till 
we  began  to  eat  our  dinner.  We  finished  all 
before  us  for  we  had  not  eaten  since  lunch  the 
day  before ;  and  it  was  three  o'clock  then.  The 
waitress  kept  hovering  around  as  if  she  would 
like  to  speak,  but  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 
At  length  she  asked  us  if  we  were  going  far. 

"To  Clontarf,"  I  answered. 

"O,"  she  said  disappointedly.  "I  thought 
you  might  be  coming  from  Dublin,  and  would 
have  some  news." 

"No,"  I  said.  "We  haven't  any;  we  left 
Drogheda  this  morning  and  there  was  no  news 
there.,, 

"Did  you  hear  how  things  were  going  in 
Dublin?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered.     "Did  you?" 

"Well,"  she  said.     "I  heard  they  were  sur- 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  157 

rendering  in  Dublin — that  they  were  beaten. 
But  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  added  quickly. 

"Nor  do  I,"  I  said.  "They  couldn't  be 
beaten  so  soon." 

"That's  what  I've  said  all  along,"  she  said. 
Evidently  she  was  a  rebel  and  was  trying  to 
find  out  if  we  were,  too.  But  before  we  could 
carry  on  any  further  conversation  we  heard 
the  soldiers  call  "Halt,"  and  then  we  saw  a 
motor  car  stopping  outside  the  window. 

The  waitress  put  her  head  out  the  window 
and  began  to  chaff  the  occupants  of  the  car. 

"Are  you  bringing  ammunition  to  the  Sinn 
Feiners?"  she  asked  them. 

"How  many  Sinn  Feiners  have  you  hidden 
in  the  car?" — and  so  forth. 

.While  she  was  doing  this  I  said  to  Agna, 
"Come,  we'll  look  out,  too,  then  the  soldiers 
may  think  we  belong  here."  We  did  so  and 
also  joined  in  the  charring  while  the  soldiers 
were  searching  the  car.  When  they  had  al- 
lowed the  car  to  go  on  the  waitress  said  to 
them  in  a  very  sarcastic  tone: 

"All  day  at  it  and  you  haven't  caught  a 
single  Sinn  Feiner  yet?"  The  soldiers  looked 
up  at  us  and  grinned  sheepishly;  but  they  did 


158  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

not  seem  the  least  disturbed  at  their  failure  to 
catch  one. 

We  turned  in  from  the  window,  paid  our 
score,  and  went  out  of  the  restaurant  just  as 
the  sergeant  in  command  of  the  barricade  was 
stepping  in.  My  heart  gave  a  great  leap. 
"Was  he  coming  in  to  question  us?"  I  asked 
myself.  But  he  made  way  for  us  and  we  went 
out  into  the  street.  This  time  we  were  on  the 
right  side  of  the  barricade;  still  there  was  a 
chance  of  our  being  stopped.  However,  we 
looked  at  the  soldiers,  nodded  and  smiled  to 
them,  received  nods  and  smiles  in  return  and 
walked  down  the  Dublin  Road. 

Balbriggan  was  the  name  of  the  town  we 
had  just  left,  some  fifteen  miles  from  Dublin. 
Now  that  we  were  refreshed  by  the  meal, 
Dublin  seemed  no  distance  away  from  us,  and 
we  felt  sure  that  we  could  reach  it  before  dark. 
We  met  more  people  on  this  road  than  we  had 
met  within  all  the  rest  of  our  journey,  soma 
going  towards  Dublin,  some  towards  Drog- 
heda.  Many  a  bit  of  news  we  heard  as  it 
was  called  across  the  road  by  friends  as  they 
passed.  But  there  was  none  that  we  could 
rely  upon  as  each  bit  contradicted  the  other. 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  159 

Still  we  began  to  feel  that  there  was  bad  news 
in  store  for  us. 

We  had  gone  along  the  road  for  about  four 
miles  when  I  suddenly  became  lame;  the  big 
muscle  in  my  right  leg  was  powerless.  I  kept 
on  as  best  I  could  dragging  my  right  leg  after 
me.  When  I  had  gone  about  a  mile  this  way 
I  grew  desperate.  The  pain  was  almost  more 
than  I  could  bear,  and  the  milestones  were 
dreadfully  far  apart.  Then  I  said  to  Agna, 
"The  first  car  that  comes  along  I'll  ask  for  a 
lift." 

The  first  car  that  came  along  was  a  big 
gray  touring  car  occupied  by  a  lady  and  gen- 
tleman. I  did  not  ask  them  for  a  lift;  but  the 
gentleman  looked  back  at  us  after  he  had 
passed. 

"Perhaps  he  knows  us,"  said  Agna.  "It 
might  be  some  of  our  friends  dispatching." 

"No,  he's  not,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  he's  stopping,"  returned  Agna. 
"Hurry  up.     Perhaps  he  will  give  us  a  lift." 

"I  can't  hurry,"  I  said.  "I'm  going  as  best 
I  can." 

"Look,"  said  Agna.  "He's  backing  up 
towards  us." 


160  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

She  was  right.  The  big  car  was  backing 
up  to  us.     When  it  was  near  the  man  asked, 

"Are  you  going  far?" 

"To  Clontarf,"  answered  Agna. 

"I'm  going  within  six  miles  of  it.  If  you 
care  to  get  in  I'll  take  you  that  length." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Agna.  "My 
sister  is  almost  done  up." 

"You're  from  the  North,  aren't  you?"  asked 
the  man  when  we  had  taken  our  seats  in  the 
car. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "We  left  Drogheda 
this  morning." 

"Who  are  you  going  to  in  Clontarf?"  he 
asked  after  he  had  driven  for  some  distance. 

"My  mother,"  I  said.  "She  came  down  for 
the  Easter  holidays  and  has  not  been  able  to 
get  away.  She's  probably  terrified  out  of  her 
senses  as  she  has  the  two  youngest  children 
with  her." 

"She's  probably  hungry,  too,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  bring  her  food?" 

"No,"  I  said.  "But  we  brought  her 
money." 

"Food  would  have  been  better,"  he  said. 
"People  who  live  on  the  outskirts  of  Dublin 
are  in  a  bad  way.     They've  always  depended 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  161 

on  Dublin  for  their  supplies.  They  can  get 
none  now.  I've  just  been  to  Drogheda  for 
bread." 

"To  Drogheda  for  bread,"  I  repeated  in 
amazement. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It's  no  joke  to  have  to  go 
twenty-five  miles  for  bread.  Weren't  you  two 
girls  afraid  to  come  down  here?" 

"We  had  to  come,"  I  said  simply.  "Papa 
couldn't  come  so  he  sent  us." 

All  this  time  we  had  been  spinning  along  at 
a  splendid  rate.  We  were  cooled  off  and  feel- 
ing rested.  Suddenly  the  man  slowed  up  the 
machine.  "Hello,  what's  this?"  he  said.  We 
followed  his  gaze  and  saw  that  the  telegraph 
wires  had  been  completely  cut  through;  not 
one  wire  was  left  together.  "Hm,"  he  said. 
"We  must  make  a  note  of  that  and  keep  our 
eyes  open  for  more."  There  was  no  more  con- 
versation after  that  for  some  time.  On  our 
way  we  saw  the  wires  cut  in  two  places. 

After  some  time  we  came  to  a  village. 
There  was  a  guard  of  soldiers  patrolling  the 
street  in  front  of  a  building.  When  we  came 
nearer  we  saw  that  it  was  the  police  barracks; 
and  that  the  windows  were  broken  and  the 
street  strewn  with  telegraph  wires. 


162  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"O?"  I  said,  wondering  what  it  could 
mean. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "The  rebels  came 
here,  captured  the  police  barracks,  took  every 
rifle  and  all  the  ammunition,  and  marched 
away  to  Dublin  or  Wexford.  But  before 
they  did  that  they  cut  down  all  the  telegraph 
wires  and  stopped  all  communication  between 
this  town  and  any  other.  They  made  a  good 
job  of  it — every  man  of  them  got  away." 

He  then  left  the  car  to  go  over  to  speak  to 
the  soldier  in  charge.  When  he  returned  he 
said,  "I  told  him  about  the  wires  being  cut 
further  up  the  road.  And  then  we  started  off 
again.  He  stopped  the  car  outside  of  the  vil- 
lage near  a  bridge  and  told  us  that  he  was  not 
going  any  further.  We  stepped  out  of  the 
car  and  thanked  him  for  his  kindness  in  bring- 
ing us  so  far. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "Don't  mention  it. 
Glad  to  help  any  one." 

We  watched  him  as  he  turned  the  car  up  a 
driveway  of  an  estate  near  the  bridge;  won- 
dering if  he  would  be  glad  to  think  that  he 
had  helped  the  daughters  of  the  Commandant- 
General  of  the  Rebels  to  reach  Dublin. 


XIII 

We  had  been  walking  only  half  an  hour 
when  we  saw  a  cavalry  regiment  coming  to- 
wards us  and  leaving  Dublin.  First  came  the 
advance  guard,  then  a  long  line  of  soldiers  and 
horses,  and  then  their  artillery  and  their  supply 
wagons,  and  more  soldiers  brought  up  the 
rear.  They  made  a  brave  show  tearing  along 
the  country  road  raising  a  dust  as  high  as  the 
horses. 

"Nora,  Nora,"  wailed  Agna.  "They're 
leaving  Dublin — they're  leaving  it — not  going 
to  it.     Our  men  must  be  beaten." 

"Hush,"  I  said  to  her.  "They  may  be  going 
to  some  place  else." 

I  stopped  an  old  man  and  asked  him, 
".Where  are  they  going?  I  thought  the  fight- 
ing was  in  Dublin." 

"They're  going  to  Wexford,"  he  replied. 
"The  rebels  have  captured  two  or  three  towns 
and  are  holding  them.  These  fellows,"  point- 
ing with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  at  the 

163 


164  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

soldiers,  "are  going  down  to  try  and  drive 
them  out.  God  curse  them,"  he  added,  sp it- 
ting  towards  the  soldiers. 

"There  now/'  I  said  as  I  turned  to  Agna. 
"Isn't  that  good  news?  Wexford  out  and  the 
West  awake!  East  and  West  the  men  are 
fighting  for  Ireland.  For  Ireland,  Agna! 
O,  aren't  you  glad  to  be  alive!  We  used  to 
read  about  the  men  who  fought  for  Ireland 
and  dream  about  them,  and  now,  in  a  couple 
of  hours  we'll  be  amongst  the  men  and  women 
who  are  fighting  in  Dublin.  We'll  be  able  to 
do  something  for  Ireland.'* 

That  thought  cheered  us  so  and  spurred  us 
on  that  we  arrived  in  Drumcondra,  a  suburb 
of  Dublin,  at  seven  o'clock  on  Sunday  night. 

We  were  going  to  the  house  of  a  friend  in 
Clonliffe  Road.  On  our  way  there  we  were 
astonished  at  the  ordinary  aspect  of  the  streets. 
Save  for  the  fact  that  we  saw  no  soldiers,  we 
could  have  thought  that  there  had  been  no 
fighting  at  all.  Dublin  is  the  most  heavily 
garrisoned  city  in  Europe.  Ordinarily  one 
could  not  walk  the  streets  without  seeing  scores 
upon  scores  of  soldiers.  Therefore,  our  not 
seeing  them  was  a  sure  sign  that  things  were 
not  in  Dublin  as  they  had  been.     When  we 


MAP  OF  DUBLIN 
(1)  General  Post  Office.     (21  Hotel  Mclropole.     (S)  Kelly's 5or±— (TConndl  St.  and  Bachelor's  Walk.     (4)  Liberty  Hall.     (5)  Four  Co  (7)  Trinil 

(J l   Dublin  Castle.     (10)   City  Hall  and  "Daily  Express"  Office.       11     Jacob's  Biscuit  Factory.     (15)  St.  Stephen's  Green.     (13)  Pembroke  and  JCorthunjbcrlan      Ro» 
land  Roads.     (15)  Clanwilliam  House,  Mount  St.     (16)  Portol  _-        17)  South  Dublin  Union.      is)  College  of  Surgeons.     (19)  Shelbourne  Hotel     (SO    Westland 

court  Street  Railway  Station.     (55)  Broadstone  Railway  Terminus.      [33    Custom  House.     (-.-4;   Magazine  Fort.  Phoenix  Park.     (25)  Boland's  Mill. 


V  College 

(8) 

Bank 

of  [Ireland 

4)  Hadd 

liL-h.i 

and  "- 

irthv 

Milr.T 

low  Railway  S 

i " 

(91 

Har- 

THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  165 

reached  the  house  of  our  friend,  the  two  daugh- 
ters, Kathleen  and  Margaret,  were  at  the  door. 

"My  God!"  said  Margaret,  when  she  spied 
us. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  asked 
Kathleen,  looking  at  our  travel-worn  figures. 
Our  faces  were  burnt  red  by  the  sun  and  the 
heat,  and  our  boots  were  white  with  the  dust  of 
the  road. 

"We've  come  from  Tyrone.  We  got  a  train 
to  Dundalk  and  walked  the  rest.  We  spent 
last  night  in  a  field.  What's  the  news?  How 
are  things  down  here?"  I  asked. 

"How  are  things,"  she  repeated  in  amaze- 
ment.   "Haven't  you  heard?" 

"Nothing,"  I  answered,  as  I  shook  my  head, 

"The  boys  are  beaten,"  she  cried.  "They've 
all  surrendered.  They're  all  prisoners.  The 
city  has  been  burning  since  Thursday." 

"All  surrendered,"  I  cried  aghast.  "Are 
you  sure?     It  doesn't  seem  possible." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure.  They're  all 
prisoners,  every  one  of  them.  The  College  of 
Surgeons  was  the  last  to  surrender  and  it  sur- 
rendered a  little  while  ago.  Madame  was 
there,"  she  said,  meaning  the  Countess 
Markievicz. 


166  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

I  sat  there  too  stunned  to  think  or  talk.  I 
knew  that  there  were  women  and  men  going 
past  the  window,  yet  I  could  not  see  them. 
After  a  while  I  managed  to  ask,  "My  father?" 

"He's  wounded  and  was  taken  a  prisoner  to 
Dublin  Castle.  They  don't  think  he'll  live. 
Though  God  knows  maybe  they'll  all  be 
killed." 

I  was  roused  from  a  dazed  condition  by  the 
sharp  crack-crack-crack  of  a  rifle. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  asked,  turning 
to  Kathleen. 

"My  God!"  she  exclaimed.  "Are  they 
starting  again?"  But  there  was  no  further 
reports. 

"Can  I  get  across  the  city?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "We  are  not  allowed 
out  of  our  own  district.  And  anyway  we  must 
not  be  out  after  seven;  martial  law  has  been 
declared." 

"Must  not  be  out  after  seven,"  I  repeated. 
"But  it's  after  seven  now,  and  there  are  lots 
of  people  out  there  on  the  street." 

"They're  at  their  own  doors,"  she  said  in- 
dignantly. "We  can  stay  around  our  own 
doors,  I  hope.  Though,"  she  added,  "if  the 
soldiers  order  us  to  go  inside  we  must  obey." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  167 

"I  wanted  to  get  to  Mamma/'  I  said. 
"She'll  be  in  a  dreadful  state." 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  Margaret. 

"At  Madame's  cottage  in  Dundrum,"  I 
answered. 

"There's  no  way  of  getting  there,"  she  said. 
"There's  neither  trains  nor  trams  running 
now." 

"We  can  walk,"  I  said.  "It's  only  six  miles 
and  we  are  well  used  to  walking  by  now." 

"Well,"  said  Kathleen.  "There's  no  use 
talking  about  it  now.  You  can't  go  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  The  best  thing  you  can  do 
is  to  eat  something  and  then  go  to  bed.  In  the 
morning  we  can  see  what  is  to  be  done." 

I  agreed  with  that  as  we  sorely  needed  the 
rest;  but  it  was  a  sorry  ending  to  all  our  hopes 
and  expectations.  On  our  way  down  we  had 
been  buoyed  up  by  the  thought  that  at  last  we 
would  be  able  to  do  something  for  Ireland. 
Something,  anything  that  would  help  on  the 
fight.  That  our  men  would  still  be  fighting 
we  never  doubted.  And  now  the  fighting  had 
stopped  before  we  came.  We  could  never  sit 
on  my  father's  knee  and  tell  the  tales  of  our 
adventures.  He  was  a  prisoner,  and  wounded, 
and  like  to  die.     Perhaps  we  would  never  see 


168  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

him  again;  perhaps  Mamma  would  never  see 
him  again.  Were  the  men  really  beaten? 
Sharp  pain-swollen  thoughts  came  thronging 
through  my  head  as  I  lay  on  my  bed  listening 
to  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  where  some  lone 
sniper  was  still  keeping  up  the  fight. 

Early  in  the  morning  Kathleen  came  into 
our  room. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  exclaimed  ex- 
citedly. "They're  building  a  barricade  at  the 
top  of  this  street." 

"They  must  expect  the  fighting  to  be  re- 
sumed," I  said. 

.We  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  down  to  the 
drawing  room.  From  the  window  I  saw  the 
soldiers  entering  the  houses  at  the  top  of  the 
street,  and  taking  furniture  from  them  with 
which  to  build  a  barricade.  It  stretched  clear 
across  the  street,  leaving  a  space  open  on  the 
left  side.  At  that  space  a  guard  of  soldiers 
were  stationed.  Kathleen  went  down  to  the 
barricade  to  ask  for  permits  which  would  allow 
us  to  pass  it  and  through  the  city.  She  was 
refused  the  permits.  But  we  were  not  dis- 
couraged at  the  failure  of  our  first  attempt. 
Kathleen,  Agna  and  I  went  in  another  direc- 
tion till  we  met  the  sentries  at  the  bridge  on 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  169 

Jones'  Road.  Here  we  were  allowed  to  pass 
and  after  a  circuitous  route  we  arrived  at  the 
top  of  O'Connell  Street,  near  the  Parnell 
statue. 

There  were  evidences  of  the  fighting  all 
around  us.  We  saw  the  buildings  falling, 
crumbling  bit  by  bit,  smoldering  and  smok- 
ing ;  a  ruin  looking  like  a  gigantic  cross  swayed 
and  swayed,  yet  never  fell.  I  was  reminded 
of  pictures  I  had  seen  of  the  War  Zone.  Here 
were  the  same  fantastic  remains  of  houses. 
Crowds  of  silent  people  walked  up  and  down 
the  street  in  front  of  the  Post  Office.  The 
horrible  smell  of  burning  filled  the  air.  And 
on  one  side  of  the  street  were  dead  horses. 

We  saw  the  General  Post  Office,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  rebels,  still  standing,  although 
entirely  gutted  by  fire.  The  British  gunners 
in  their  attempt  to  destroy  the  Post  Office  had 
destroyed  every  building  between  it  and  the 
river.  All  around  were  buildings  levelled,  or 
falling — but  the  General  Post  Office  stood 
erect.  It  was  symbolical  of  the  Spirit  of 
Ireland.  Though  all  around  lies  death  and 
destruction,  though  wasted  by  fire  and  sword, 
that  very  thing  which  England  had  put  forth 
her  might  to  crush,  stands  erect  and  provides 


170  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

a  rallying  place  for  those  who  follow  after. 
English  guns  will  never  destroy  the  Spirit  of 
Ireland,  or  the  demand  for  Irish  freedom. 

We  were  not  stopped  by  any  of  the  soldiers 
as  we  went  through  the  city.  It  was  not  until 
we  reached  Portobello  Bridge  that  we  were 
told  to  go  back.  We  had  quite  a  discussion 
with  the  soldiers.  They  said  they  were  under 
orders  not  to  allow  man  or  woman,  boy  or  girl, 
to  pass  without  permission  from  their  officer. 

"Where  is  your  officer  to  be  found?"  I 
asked. 

"He  is  over  there  at  the  public  house,"  said 
the  soldier. 

We  went  over  to  the  public  house  and  found 
the  officer.  He  was  watching  his  men  who 
were  taking  supplies  from  the  storehouse. 
They  were  probably  commandeering.  As 
Kathleen  spoke  with  a  strong  Dublin  accent 
we  made  her  our  spokeswoman.  She  told  the 
officer  that  our  mother  lived  in  Dundrum,  and 
that  we  had  not  been  able  to  get  to  her  since 
Easter  Monday,  and  that  she  was  sure  her 
mother  would  be  crazy  thinking  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  us. 

The  officer  looked  at  us  for  a  few  seconds 
without  saying  anything,  then  said,  "I'm  sura 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  171 

she  would;  such  a  fine  lot  of  girls.  Well,  you 
can  go  through." 

"Where's  the  pass?"  asked  Kathleen. 

"Yc  u  won't  need  one,"  he  said.  "Just  telj 
the  sentry  to  look  over  my  way." 

We  went  hack  to  the  bridge  again.  This 
time  when  we  were  stopped  Kathleen  told  the 
soldier  to  look  over  at  his  officer.  The  soldier 
looked  over,  the  officer  nodded  to  him,  and  we 
passed  through. 

While  we  were  far  out  on  the  Rathmines 
Road  I  saw  a  poster  of  the  Daily  Sketch,  an 
English  illustrated  daily.  The  poster  had  a 
photo  of  my  father  on  it  with  the  inscription, 
"James  Connolly — The  dead  rebel  leader." 

"Thank  God!"  I  cried.  "That  my  mother 
is  so  far  out  of  the  city.     She'll  not  see  that." 

We  arrived  at  Dundrum  late  in  the  after- 
noon. We  had  stopped  on  our  way  at  shops 
to  buy  some  provisions  for  my  mother  in  case 
she  were  in  need  of  them.  When  I  came  to  the 
cottage  the  half-door  was  open,  and  through  it 
came  a  sound  of  weeping,  and  the  fright- 
ened crying  of  my  youngest  sister.  I  pulled 
back  the  bolt  of  the  half-door  and  stepped  into 
the  cottage.  My  mother  was  sitting  on  a  chair 
weeping.     I  saw  that  somehow  she  had  re- 


172  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

ceived  a  copy  of  the  Daily  Sketch  bearng  the 
false  news  of  my  father's  death.  But  she  did 
not  know  it  was  false  and  was  mourniig  my 
father.  When  I  entered  she  looked  up  in 
amaze,  caught  her  breath,  and  then  run  to- 
wards me  crying, 

"My  girl,  my  girl.  I  thought  you  were  lost 
to  me  too." 

"You  haven't  lost  any  one  yet,  Mamma,"  I 
said.  "Papa  is  wounded  and  a  prisoner,  but 
that  is  all.  They  don't  shoot  or  hang  prisoners 
of  war.  Agna  is  coming  up  the  path.  She'll 
be  here  in  a  minute.  Be  our  own  brave  little 
mother  again." 

Just  then  Agna  came  and  mother's  grief  was 
somewhat  alleviated.  With  her  arms  around 
the  two  of  us  she  said: 

"I'd  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  you 
again.  Now,  I  have  you  and  know  that  your 
father  is  not  dead.  But  they'll  not  let  him  live 
long,"  she  cried.  "They  fear  him.  They  know 
they  can  neither  bribe  nor  humble  him.  He'll 
always  fight  them.  I've  lost  Rory  too.  I  don't 
know  what  happened  to  him.  He  went  with 
his  father  on  Monday.  That  was  the  last  I 
saw  of  him." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  173 

Rory  is  my  fifteen-year-old  brother,  the  only 
son. 

"Rory's  probably  in  Jail  with  the  rest  of  the 
boys,"  I  said.  "They  were  all  imprisoned  when 
they  surrendered.  He'll  be  all  right  there. 
He's  in  good  company. 

We  talked  long  into  the  morning.  Hoping 
against  hope,  comforting  each  other,  praying 
for  courage,  yet  always  despairing,  we  spent 
the  night.  The  night  was  long  though  we  tried 
to  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  the 
cramped  quarters  and  our  uneasy  minds  would 
allow. 

I  left  the  cottage  early  in  the  morning  to  go 
to  Dublin  to  find  a  place  where  my  mother 
and  the  family  could  stay.  We  wanted  to  be 
near  at  hand  in  case  there  would  be  a  chance 
to  see  my  father. 


XIV 

On  Wednesday  my  mother  and  sisters  came 
in  to  Dublin.  Agna  went  up  to  Dublin  Castle 
to  try  to  see  my  father.  She  made  a  number 
of  attempts  to  see  him,  received  all  sorts  of 
advice,  was  sent  chasing  from  pillar  to  post; 
and  finally  was  told  that  no  visitors  would  be 
allowed.  The  only  news  she  was  able  to  get 
was  from  a  nurse  who  told  her  that  Papa  was 
very  weak  from  loss  of  blood ;  and  that  he  was 
not  improving. 

After  that  all  the  news  we  had  of  my  father 
was  through  the  newspapers.  They  told  us 
that  he  was  steadily  growing  weaker  and  that 
his  recovery  was  doubtful.  Then  we  had  heard 
of  the  murder  of  Sheehy  Skeffington.  Agna 
had  met  Mrs.  Skeffington  when  she  was  at 
Dublin  Castle,  and  had  been  told  the  awful 
news  of  Skeffington's  death.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful shock.  We  had  known  and  admired 
Sheehy  Skeffington,  and  he  had  been  a  great 
friend  of  Papa's. 

174 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  175 

Then  day  by  day  the  news  of  executions 
nearly  drove  us  out  of  our  minds.  We  heard 
of  the  executions  of  Tom  Clarke,  and  of  Pa- 
draic  Pearse,  and  of  Thomas  MacDonagh. 
Every  time  we  heard  the  newsboys  call  out, 
"Two  more  executions,"  or  "One  more  execu- 
tion" we  dreaded  to  look  in  the  paper  for  fear 
we  might  read  my  father's  name.  And  yet 
we  must  buy  the  papers. 

Every  day  we  heard  of  further  arrests. 
Every  day  we  saw  men  being  marched  off  be- 
tween rows  of  soldiers.  And  Mamma  had  had 
the  added  fear  of  my  being  arrested  given 
to  her.  Some  one  had  come  to  the  house  and 
told  her  that  the  police  were  searching  for  me. 
I  felt  that  it  was  not  so  but  could  not  convince 
Mamma,  At  times  the  awful  terror  that  we 
were  all  going  to  be  taken  from  her  took  pos- 
session of  her,  and  she  could  not  be  comforted. 
We  had  found  out  that  Rory  was  imprisoned 
in  Richmond  Barracks.  Mamma  feared  and 
dreaded  that  he  might  be  shot  because  of  his 
relationship  to  his  father. 

"Willie  Pearse  was  executed  because  he  was 
Padraic  Pearse's  brother,"  she  would  say  when 
we  remonstrated  with  her.  "He  was  not  a 
leader;  he  was  only  a  soldier.     Rory  was  a 


176  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

soldier  too.  How  can  I  be  sure  that  he  won't 
be  shot?" 

On  Sunday  afternoon  we  found  a  note  in  the 
letter  box  addressed  to  Mrs.  Connolly.  Mamma 
opened  it  and  read:  "If  Mrs.  Connolly  will 
call  at  Dublin  Castle  Hospital  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday  after  eleven  o'clock  she  can  see  her 
husband."  Mamma  was  in  terror  that  Papa's 
time  had  come.  Every  one  had  been  telling  her 
that  the  fact  of  Papa's  being  wounded  was  a 
good  thing  for  him;  that  as  long  as  he  was 
wounded  he  would  not  be  executed;  and  that 
by  the  time  he  was  well  public  feeling  would 
have  grown  so  strong  the  authorities  would 
hesitate  to  shoot  him.  "They'll  never  execute 
a  wounded  man"  was  the  cry. 

I  quieted  Mamma's  terror  somewhat  by  point- 
ing out  that  the  note  said  Monday  or  Tuesday, 
so  the  day  of  his  execution  could  not  be  either 
of  those  days.  Still  she  was  in  an  agony  of 
impatience  for  Monday  morning. 

"I'll  have  to  tell  him  that  Rory  is  in  Rich- 
mond Barracks,"  she  said. 

She  had  just  said  this  when  a  knock  came 
to  the  door.  When  we  opened  it  Xlory  and  a 
chum  of  his  stepped  inside  of  the  door.  They 
were   filthy    dirty    and    their   eyes   were   red 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  177 

rimmed.  Sleep  clogged  their  eyes  and  made 
speech  difficult  to  them. 

"Rory,"  cried  my  mother.  "And  Eamonn — 
where  were  you?" 

"We  were  both  in  Richmond  Barracks," 
said  Rory.    "We're  hungry,"  he  added. 

While  we  got  them  something  to  eat  they 
had  a  wash  and  came  to  the  table  more  like 
themselves. 

"We  haven't  had  a  real  sleep  since  Easter," 
said  Rory  as  an  excuse  for  his  prodigious 
yawns. 

"Couldn't  you  sleep  in  Richmond  Bar- 
racks?" asked  my  sister  Moira. 

"Sleep,"  he  cried.  "The  room  we  were  in 
had  marked  on  the  door  "Accommodation  for 
eleven  men"  and  they  put  eighty- three  of  us 
into  it.  There  Avas  hardly  room  to  stand.  We 
couldn't  sit  down,  we  couldn't  lie  down,  we 
couldn't  wash,  we  couldn't  do  anything  there," 
he  broke  off. 

We  asked  him  if  he  knew  many  of  the  men 
in  the  room  with  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Tom  Clarke  was  in  the  room 
with  me,  and  Sean  MacDermott,  and  Major 
MacBride.    But  they  were  removed  later." 

"How  did  they  come  to  let  you  out?" 


178  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"O,  they  were  releasing  all  boys  under  six- 
teen." 

"Did  they  ask  you  anything  about  your 
father?"  asked  Mamma. 

"O,"  said  Rory,  "I  didn't  give  them  my  right 
name.  I'm  down  as  Robert  Carney,  of  Ban- 
gor, Co.  Down." 

On  Monday  morning  Mamma  went  to  see 
my  father.  Before  she  went  I  said,  "If  you  get 
the  chance  tell  him  that  we  are  safe." 

"O,  I'd  be  afraid  to  mention  your  name," 
she  said. 

"Well,"  I  said.  "Tell  him  that  Gwendolyn 
Violet  has  turned  out  to  be  a  great  walker; 
that  she  walked  to  Dublin.  That  will  satisfy 
him  and  quiet  his  mind." 

Gwendolyn  Violet  was  a  name  bestowed  on 
me  by  my  father  when  once  I  had  tried  to  ride 
my  high-horse.  And  he  often  used  it  when  ha 
did  not  desire  to  refer  to  me  by  name. 

Before  Mamma  was  allowed  to  see  Papa  she 
was  subjected  to  a  most  rigorous  search.  She 
was  also  required  to  give  her  word  that  she 
would  not  tell  him  of  anything  that  had  gone 
on  outside  since  the  rebellion.  Also  to  promise 
that  she  would  not  bring  in  anything  for  him 
to  take  his  life  with.    My  youngest  sister,  who 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  179 

was  not  quite  eight  years  old,  and  whom  Mam- 
ma had  brought  with  her  was  also  searched. 
Mamma  came  home  in  a  more  contented  frame 
of  mind.  She  was  sure  that  he  would  be  spared 
to  her  for  some  time. 

On  Tuesday  I  went  with  Mamma  to  see  my 
father.  There  were  soldiers  on  guard  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  and  in  the  small  alcove  lead- 
ing to  Papa's  room.  They  were  fully  armed 
and  as  they  stood  guard  they  had  their  bayon- 
ets fixed.  All  that  armed  force  for  a  wounded 
man  who  could  not  raise  his  shoulders  from  the 
bed! 

In  Papa's  room  there  was  an  officer  of  the 
R.  A.  M.  C.  all  the  time  with  him.  Papa  had 
been  wounded  in  the  leg,  both  bones  had  been 
fractured.  When  I  saw  him  his  wounded  leg 
was  resting  in  a  cage.  He  was  very  weak  and 
pale  and  his  voice  was  very  low.  I  asked  him 
was  he  suffering  much  pain. 

"No,"  he  said.  "But  I  have  been  court- 
martialed  to-day.  They  propped  me  up  in 
bed.    The  strain  was  very  great." 

I  was  very  much  depressed.  I  had  been 
thinking  that  there  would  be  no  attempt  to 
shoot  him  till  he  was  well.  Rut  then — I  knew, 
that  if  they  courtmartialed  him  while  he  was 


180  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

unable  to  sitjujp  in  his  bed,  they  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  shoot  while  he  was  wounded.  I  asked 
him  how  he  got  wounded. 

"It  was  while  I  had  gone  out  to  place  some 
men  at  a  certain  point.  On  my  way  back  I 
was  shot  above  the  ankle  by  a  sniper.  Both 
bones  in  my  leg  are  shattered.  I  was  too  far 
away  from  the  men  whom  I  had  just  placed 
to  see  me,  and  I  was  too  far  from  the  Post 
Office  to  be  seen.  So  I  had  to  crawl  back  till 
I  was  seen.  The  loss  of  blood  was  great.  They 
couldn't  get  it  staunched." 

He  was  very  cheerful  as  he  lay  in  his  bed 
making  plans  for  our  future.  I  know  now  that 
he  knew  what  his  fate  was  to  be.  But  he  never 
gave  us  word  or  sign  that  his  sentence  had  been 
pronounced  an  hour  before  we  were  admitted 
to  him.  He  gave  my  mother  a  message  to 
Sheehy  Skefrmgton  asking  him  to  get  some  of 
his  (Papa's)  songs  published  and  to  give  the 
proceeds  to  my  mother.  It  nearly  broke  my 
mother's  heart  to  think  that  she  could  not  tell 
him  that  his  good  friend  and  comrade  had  al- 
ready been  murdered  b}^  the  British.  I  tried 
to  tell  him  some  things.  I  told  him  that  the 
papers  had  it  that  Captain  Mellowes  was  still 
out  with  his  men  in  the  Galway  hills.     I  told 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  181 

him  that  Laurence  Ginnell  was  fighting  for 
the  men  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

"Good  man,  Larry,"  he  said.  "He  can  al- 
ways be  depended  upon." 

He  was  very  proud  of  his  men. 

"It  was  a  good,  clean  fight,"  he  said. 
"The  cause  cannot  die  now.  The  fight  will  put 
an  end  to  recruiting.  Irishmen  now  realize  the 
absurdity  of  fighting  for  the  freedom  of  an- 
other country  while  their  own  is  still  enslaved." 

He  praised  the  brave  women  and  girls  who 
had  helped  in  the  fight. 

"No  one  can  ever  say  enough  to  honor  or 
praise  them,"  he  said.  I  mentioned  the  num- 
ber of  young  boys  who  had  been  in  the  fight. 

"Rory,  you  know,  was  only  released  on  Sun- 
day last  along  with  the  other  boys  of  sixteen 
or  under." 

"So  Rory  was  in  prison,"  said  my  father. 
"How  long?" 

"Eight  days,"  I  answered. 

"He  fought  for  his  country,  and  has  been 
imprisoned  for  his  country,  and  he's  not  six- 
teen. He  has  had  a  great  start  in  life.  Hasn't 
he,  Nora?"  he  said. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said.  "What  happened  wheu 
you  arrived  in  the  North?" 


182  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"The  men  were  all  dispersed  and  could  not 
be  brought  together  again,"  I  answered. 
"When  I  saw  that  there  would  be  no  fighting 
there,  I  tried  to  come  back  here.  I  came  by 
road,"  I  added. 

"Did  you  walk  the  whole  way?"  he  asked. 

"Only  from  Dundalk,"  I  said.  "And  when, 
I  arrived  the  fighting  was  over.  I  had  no 
chance — I  did  nothing." 

"Nothing,"  said  my  father  as  he  reached  up 
his  arms  and  drew  me  down  to  his  breast.  "I 
think  my  little  woman  did  as  much  as  any  of, 
us." 

"There  was  one  young  boy,  Lillie,"  he  said, 
turning  to  my  mother,  "who  was  carrying  the 
top  of  my  stretcher  when  we  were  leaving  the 
burning  Post  Office.  The  street  was  being 
swept  continually  with  bullets  from  machine 
guns.  This  young  lad  was  at  the  head  of  the 
stretcher,  and  if  a  bullet  came  near  me,  he 
would  move  his  body  in  such  a  way  that  he 
might  receive  the  bullet  instead  of  me.  He 
was  so  young  looking,  although  big,  that  I 
asked  him  his  age.  'I'm  just  fourteen,  sir/  he 
answered." 

My  father's  eyes  lit  up  as  he  was  telling  the 


EAMONN   CEAXNT 


184  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

guard  at  the  top  of  the  stair  with  rifles  and 
fixed  bayonets.  And  in  the  alcove  leading  to 
the  room  were  three  more  also  with  fixed  bay- 
onets. There  was  an  officer  on  guard  in  the 
room. 

When  we  entered  the  room  Papa  had  his 
head  turned  to  the  door  watching  for  our  com- 
ing.   When  he  saw  Mamma  he  said: 

"Well,  Lillie,  I  suppose  you  know  what  this 
means?" 

"O  James!  It's  not  that— it's  not  that?"  my 
mother  wailed. 

"Yes,  Lillie,"  he  said.  "I  fell  asleep  for  the 
first  time  to-night  and  they  wakened  me  at 
eleven  and  told  me  that  I  was  to  die  at  dawn." 

My  mother  broke  down,  laid  her  head  on  his 
bed  and  sobbed  heartbreakingly. 

My  father  patted  her  head  and  said,  "Don't 
cry,  Lillie,  you'll  unman  me." 

"But  your  beautiful  life,  James,"  my  mother 
sobbed.    "Your  beautiful  life." 

"Well,  Lillie,"  he  said.  "Hasn't  it  been  a 
full  life,  and  isn't  this  a  good  end?"  My 
mother  still  wept. 

I  was  crying  too.  He  turned  to  me  at  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  and  said: 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  185 

''Don't  cry,  Nora,  there  is  nothing  to  cry- 
about." 

I  said,  "I  won't  cry."  He  patted  my  hand 
and  said,  "That's  my  brave  girl."  He  then 
whispered  to  me,  "Put  your  hand  here,"  mak- 
ing a  movement  under  the  clothes.  I  put  my 
hand  where  he  indicated.  "Put  it  under  the 
clothes,"  he  said.  I  did  so  and  he  slipped 
something  stiff  into  my  hand. 

"Smuggle  that  out,"  he  said.  "It  is  my  last 
statement." 

Mother  was  sitting  at  the  other  side  of  the 
bed  holding  Papa's  hand,  her  face  growing 
grayer  and  older  every  minute. 

"Remember,  Lillie,"  said  my  father.  "I 
want  you  and  the  girls  to  go  to  America.  It 
will  be  the  best  place  for  the  girls  to  get  on. 
Leave  the  boy  at  home  in  Ireland.  He  was  a 
little  brick  and  I  am  proud  of  him." 

My  mother  could  only  nod  her  head.  Papa 
tried  to  cheer  her  up  by  telling  her  about  a 
man  who  came  to  the  Post  Office,  during  the 
revolution,  to  buy  a  penny  stamp;  and  how 
indignant  he  was  when  he  was  told  he  could 
not  get  one.  "Don't  know  what  Dublin  is 
coming  to  when  you  can't  buy  a  stamp  at  thq 
Post  Office,"  he  said. 


186  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Papa  then  turned  to  me  and  said,  "I  heard 
that  poor  Skeffington  was  killed."  I  said, 
"Yes."  And  then  I  told  him  that  all  his  staff, 
that  all  the  best  men  in  Ireland  were  gone.  He 
was  silent  for  a  while,  then  said,  "I  am  glad  I 
am  going  with  them."  I  think  he  thought  he 
was  the  first  to  be  executed.  I  told  him  that 
the  papers  that  day  had  said,  that  it  was  prom- 
ised in  the  House  of  Commons  that  there 
would  be  no  more  shootings.  "England's 
promises,"  was  all  he  said  to  that. 

The  officer  then  told  us  that  we  had  only 
five  minutes  more.  My  mother  was  nearly 
overcome;  we  had  to  give  her  water.  Papa 
tried  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms  but  he  could  only 
lift  his  head  and  shoulders  from  the  bed.  The 
officer  said,  "Time  is  up."  Papa  turned  to 
say  "Good-by"  to  me.  I  coulcl  not  speak. 
"Go  to  mother,"  he  said. 

I  tried  to  bring  her  away,  I  could  not  move 
her.  She  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  A  nurse 
came  forward  and  helped  her  away.  I  ran 
back  and  kissed  my  father  again.  "Nora,  I'm 
proud  of  you,"  said  my  father.  I  kissed  him 
again,  then  the  door  was  shut  and  we  saw  him 
no  more. 

.We  were  brought  back  to  the  house.  Mother 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  187 

went  to  the  window,  pulled  back  the  curtain, 
and  stood  watching  for  the  dawn,  moaning  all 
the  while.  I  thought  her  heart  would  break 
and  that  she  would  die  too. 

When  dawn  was  past  and  we  knew  that  my 
father  was  dead,  I  opened  the  stiff  piece  of 
paper  he  had  given  me,  and  read  to  my  mother, 
my  brother  and  sisters  the  Last  Statement  of 
my  father. 

This  is  what  I  read: 

To  the  Field  General  Court  Martial,  held  at  Dublin  Cas- 
tle, on  May  9,  1916. 

The  evidence  mainly  went  to  establish  the  fact  that  the 
accused.  James  Connolly,  was  in  command  at  the  General 
Post  Office,  and  was  also  the  Commandant-General  of 
the  Dublin  Division.  Two  of  the  witnesses,  however, 
strove  to  bring  in  alleged  instances  of  wantonly  risking 
the  lives  of  prisoners.  The  Court  held  that  these  charges 
were  irrelevant  and  could  not  be  ]5laced  against  the  pris- 
oner. 

I  do  not  wish  to  make  any  defense  except  against 
charges  of  wanton  cruelty  to  prisoners.  These  trifling 
allegations,  that  have  been  made,  if  they  record  facts 
that  really  happened,  deal  only  with  the  almost  unavoid- 
able incidents  of  a  hurried  uprising  against  long  estab- 
lished authority,  and  nowhere  show  evidence  of  set  pur- 
pose to  wantonly  injure  unarmed  persons. 

\Ye  went  out  to  break  the  connection  between  this  coun- 
try and  the  British  Empire,  and  to  establish  an  Irish  Re- 
public.    We  believed  that  the  call  we  then  issued  to  the  . 
people  of  Ireland,  was  a  nobler  call,  in  a  holier  cause, 
than  any  call  issued  to  them  during  this  war,  having  any 


188  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

connection  with  the  war.  We  succeeded  in  proving  that 
Irishmen  are  ready  to  die  endeavoring  to  win  for  Ireland 
those  national  rights,  which  the  British  Government  has 
been  asking  them  to  die  to  win  for  Belgium.  As  long  as 
that  remains  the  case  the  cause  of  Irish  Freedom  is  safe. 

Believing  that  the  British  Government  has  no  right 
in  Ireland,  never  had  any  right  in  Ireland,  and  never  can 
have  any  right  in  Ireland,  the  presence,  in  any  one  gen- 
eration of  Irishmen,  of  even  a  respectable  minority,  ready 
to  die  to  affirm  that  truth,  makes  that  government  forever 
a  usurpation  and  a  crime  against  human  progress. 

I  "personally  thank  God  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  day 
when  thousands  of  Irishmen  and  boys,  and  hundreds  of 
Irish  women  and  girls  were  ready  to  affirm  that  truth,  and 
to  attest  it  with  their  lives  if  need  be. 

(Signed)   James  Connolly,  Commandant-General, 

Dublin  Division,  Army  of  the  Irish  Republic. 


XV 

We  went  to  Dublin  Castle  that  morning  to 
ask  for  his  body.  It  was  refused  to  us.  The 
authorities  were  not  permitting  even  a  coffin, 
we  were  told.  But  a  kind  nurse  had  cut  off  a 
lock  of  Papa's  hair  and  this  she  gave  to 
Mamma. 

That  was  all  there  was  left  of  him  for  us. 

We  saw  Father  Aloyisus  who  had  attended 
my  father  to  Kilmainham  jail  where  he  had 
been  shot. 

"How  did  they  shoot  him — how  could  they 
shoot  him?  He  couldn't  sit  up  in  his  bed.  He 
couldn't  stand  up  to  be  shot,"  I  cried.  "How 
was  he  shot?" 

"It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  me,"  said  Father 
Aloyisus.  "I  had  been  with  him  that  evening 
and  I  promised  to  come  to  him  this  afternoon. 
I  felt  sure  there  would  be  no  more  executions 
— at  least  that  is  how  I  read  the  words  of  Mr. 
Asquith.  And  your  father  was  so  much  easier 
than  he  had  been.  I  was  sure  that  he  would 
get  his  first  night's  real  rest." 

1S9 


190  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

"But,  how  did  they  shoot  him,  Father?" 
"The  ambulance  that  brought  you  home 
from  him  came  for  me.  I  was  astonished.  I 
had  felt  so  sure  that  I  would  not  be  needed 
that  for  the  first  time  since  the  rising  I  locked 
the  doors.  And  some  time  after  two,  I  was 
knocked  up.  The  ambulance  brought  me  to 
your  father.  He  was  a  wonderful  man.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  of  all  men  who  have  been 
executed,  he  was  the  only  one  I  did  not  know 
personally.  Though  I  knew  of  him  and  ad- 
mired his  work.  I  will  always  thank  God  as 
long  as  I  live  that  He  permitted  me  to  be  with 
3Tour  father  till  he  was  dead.  Such  a  wonder- 
ful man  he  was.  Such  concentration  of  mind." 
"Yes,  Father,  biit  they  shot  him — how?" 
"They  carried  him  from  his  bed  in  an  am- 
bulance stretcher  down  to  a  waiting  ambulance 
and  drove  him  to  Kilmainham  Jail.  They  car- 
ried him  from  the  ambulance  to  the  Jail  yarcj 
and  put  him  on  a  chair.  .  .  .  He  was  very 
brave  and  cool.  ...  I  said  to  him,  'Will  you 
pray  for  the  men  who  are  about  to  shoot  you/ 
and  he  said,  'I  will  say  a  prayer  for  all  brave 
men  who  do  their  duty.'  .  .  .  His  prayer  was, 
'Forgive  them  for  they  know  not  what  they  do.' 
•  .  .  And  then  they  shot  him.  •  .  ." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  191 

"What  did  they  do  with  him,  then?"  whis- 
pered my  mother. 

"They  took  the  body  to  Arbor  Hill  Bar- 
racks. All  the  men  who  were  executed  are 
there." 

Papa  had  told  mother  to  ask  for  his  personal 
effects.  •  And  mother  had  asked  for  them.  We 
only  received  some  of  his  underclothes  and  the 
night  clothes  he  wore  in  bed  while  he  was 
wounded.  Papa  had  said  that  the  authorities 
had  his  watch,  his  pocketbook,  and  his  uniform. 
But  the  officer  in  charge  knew  nothing  about 
them. 

Mother  made  many  inquiries.  But  it  was 
not  until  she  went  in  person  to  General  Max- 
well that  she  succeeded  in  having  the  pocket 
book  returned  to  her.  Major  Price,  Chief 
Intelligence  Officer  in  Ireland,  had  told  her 
that  they  were  keeping  it  for  evidence. 

Evidence — what  more  evidence  did  they  re- 
quire against  a  man  they  had  executed? 

Some  time  afterwards  we  recovered  his 
watch ;  but  we  never  found  his  uniform.  And 
since  I  came  to  America  I  have  been  shown 
that  a  copy  of  the  paper  my  father  edited  with 
his  last  corrections  upon  it,  was  put  upon  the 


192  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

market  by  a  careful  British  officer  who  had  fig- 
ured out  its  value  as  a  souvenir. 

And  then  the  whispered  warnings  came 
again  to  awaken  my  mother's  fear.  Some  mes- 
sages reached  her  that  the  police  were  again 
looking  for  me.  Nor  could  I  convince  her 
otherwise.  She  begged  and  pleaded  with  me 
to  go  away  from  Dublin  so  that  I  would  not 
be  arrested.  So  that  she  might  feel  more  at 
ease  in  her  mind,  I  went  to  Belfast. 

Even  then  she  did  not  feel  that  I  was  safe. 
She  came  to  Belfast  and  asked  me  to  try  to 
get  to  America  alone.  In  accordance  with  my 
father's  last  wish  she  had  applied  for  passports 
to  take  us  all  to  America,  or  to  take  the  girls. 
But  the  British  authorities  felt  that  the  arrival 
of  Mrs.  Connolly  and  her  five  daughters  in 
America  would  be  prejudicial  to  the  interests 
of  the  Realm;  and  refused  her  the  passports. 
She  had  gone  again  and  again  to  the  authori- 
ties, only  to  be  sent  hither  and  thither  on  a 
fool's  errand.  And  as  she  despaired  of  ever 
getting  them  she  asked  me  to  make  any  at- 
tempt I  could  and  to  use  whatever  means  I 
could  to  get  to  America. 

"Let  them  see  that  your  comings  and  goings 
are  not  dependent  on  their  goodwill." 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  193 

And  I  to  please  her  left  Ireland  and  crossed 
to  England.  There  I  applied  for  a  passport; 
and  was  given  one.  Not  as  the  daughter  of 
James  Connolly,  however. 

It  was  the  last  week  of  June  that  we  re- 
ceived the  final  refusal  of  our  request  for  pass- 
ports, and  on  the  third  week  of  July  I  sailed 
from  Liverpool.  I  arrived  in  New  York  the 
first  day  of  August,  nineteen  hundred  and  six- 
teen. 


XVI 

For  the  benefit  of  the  reader  in  whose  mind 
there  might  rise  some  confusion  with  regard 
to  the  demobilization  of  the  Irish  Volunteers, 
and  how  this  demobilization  order  could  spoil 
the  plans  for  the  Rising,  and  why  Eoin  Mac- 
Neill  had  the  power  to  send  out  such  an  order. 
I  am  adding  the  following  statement: 

When  the  Irish  Volunteers  were  first  organ- 
ized, it  was  necessary  to  have  a  man  known 
throughout  Ireland,  a  man  of  some  reputation 
and  authority,  as  the  head  of  the  organization. 
Eoin  MacXeill  was  such  a  man.  He  was  an 
authority  on  Irish  History  and  Ancient  Ire- 
land. Also,  what  was  more  necessary,  he  was 
an  unknown  quantity  to  the  English  Govern- 
ment. Had  there  been  elected  as  President  a 
man  well  known  as  a  revolutionary  and  as  an 
Extremist,  there  would  have  been  short  work 
made  of  the  Irish  Volunteers.  The  English 
Government  would  then  have  known  immedi- 
ately that  the  Irish  Volunteers    were    being 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  195 

organized,  drilled,  and  supplied  with  arms  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  a  rebellion  against  it,  and 
would  have  given  it  no  opportunity  to  spread 
and  grow,  and  become  disciplined.  As  it  was, 
with  MacNeill  as  the  President,  whom  they 
knew  as  a  rather  conservative,  academic  per- 
son, whose  politics  at  that  time  were  more  of 
the  Home  Rule  order  than  anything  else,  they 
felt  quite  at  ease  and  contented  about  the 
growth  of  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

MacNeill,  although  friendly  with,  and  be- 
cause of  the  Irish  Volunteers  in  continual  con- 
tact with,  the  revolutionary  members,  was  not 
a  member  of  the  Revolutionary  Organization. 
He  was  not  of  the  type  to  which  revolutionists 
belong.  His  mind  was  of  the  academic  order 
which  must  weigh  all  things,  consider  well  all 
actions,  and  count  the  cost.  A  true  revolution- 
ist must  never  count  the  cost,  for  he  knows 
that  a  revolution  always  repays  itself,  though 
it  cost  blood,  and  through  it  life  be  lost  and 
sacrifice  made.  He  knows  that  the  flame  of 
the  ideal  which  caused  the  revolution  burns  all 
the  more  brightly,  and  steadily,  and  thus  at- 
tracts more  men  and  minds,  and  because  of  the 
life-blood  and  sacrifice  becomes  more  enduring. 

That  a  man  of  MacNeuTs  type  of  mind 


196  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

should  have  gone  so  far  along  the  road  to 
revolution  is  the  extraordinary  thing.  Due 
credit  should  be  given  to  him  for  that,  although 
he  did  fail  his  comrades  at  the  critical  moment. 

MacNeill  was  made  President,  and  all 
orders  affecting  the  organization  as  a  whole, 
that  is  all  important  orders,  came  from  him 
under  his  signature.  Therefore,  when  an  order 
came  with  his  signature,  the  Irish  Volunteers 
obeyed  it  unquestioningly. 

Padraic  Pearse  as  Commandant-General  of 
the  Irish  Volunteers  was  Chief  in  military  af- 
fairs. And  that  is  where  the  Irish  Volunteers, 
made  the  first  mistake.  The  office  of  President 
should  have  been  of  a  purely  civil  character. 
So  that  when  a  military  order  was  issued  from 
Headquarters,  it  wTould  bear,  not  the  signature 
of  the  President  but  the  signature  of  the  Mili- 
tary chief.  That  this  would  have  been  difficult, 
I  am  aware, — it  is  so  easy  to  see  mistakes  after 
they  are  made. 

MacNeill,  through  the  columns  of  the  Irish 
Volunteer  (the  official  organ  of  the  Irish  Vol- 
unteers), always  preached  prudence,  and  a 
waiting  policy.  He  advised  the  Volunteers  not 
to  be  the  first  to  attack,  but  to  wait  to  be  at- 
tacked.    He  counseled  them  to  recruit  their 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  197 

ranks,  so  that  when  the  war  was  ended  their 
number  would  reach  three  hundred  thousand; 
and  that  an  armed  force  of  three  hundred  thou- 
sand men  would  then  be  in  a  position  to  de- 
mand the  freedom  of  Ireland  from  England. 
Still,  as  before,  this  counsel  was  regarded  by 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  Irish  Volunteers  as  a 
necessary  evil,  knowing  that  it  is  not  wise 
policy  to  show  your  hand  to  the  enemy  before 
the  appointed  time. 

The  revolutionary  members,  all  this  time, 
were  completing  their  plans,  strengthening  the 
organization,  and  waiting  eagerly  and  hope- 
fully for  the  days  to  pass,  and  the  Day  of  all 
days  to  come.  Every  time  they  thought  of  the 
approaching  day  they  were  quietly  exultant. 
They  knew  that  their  chance  of  success  was 
greater  than  it  had  ever  been  since  the  days 
of  Shane  and  Hugh  O'Neill.  And  they  joy- 
fully, and  prayerfully  thanked  God  that  the 
opportunity  had  come  in  their  day.  All  things 
went  well,  their  plans  matured,  and  at  last  they 
were  ready  for  the  fight. 

The  order  for  mobilizing  was  sent  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  Ireland,  and  it  was 
signed  by  Eoin  MacNeill.  The  order  was  re- 
ceived and  obeyed  by  the  Irish  Volunteers. 


198  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Then,  on  Good  Friday,  came  the  news  that 
Roger  Casement  was  arrested. 

Roger  Casement  had  gone  to  Germany, 
shortly  after  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  to  seek 
an  expression  of  goodwill  toward  Ireland  from 
Germany.  Germany  knew  that  Ireland  was 
held  in  subjection  to  England,  contrary  to  the 
wishes  of  the  vast  majority  of  the  Irish  people, 
and  that  Ireland  had  always  considered  the 
enemy  of  her  oppressor  as  her  friend.  Ger- 
many knew  that  when  Spain  was  England's 
enemy,  Ireland  had  sought  the  assistance  of 
the  Spanish  King,  and  when  France  was  the 
enemy  of  England,  Wolfe  Tone  and  Robert 
Emmet  had  both  sought  the  aid  of  France ;  she 
knew  that  when  England  was  at  war  with  the 
Boers,  Irishmen  had  organized  a  brigade,  and 
gone  to  South  Africa,  in  the  hope  of  helping 
to  defeat  the  English  enemy.  She  knew,  that 
then,  as  now,  Ireland  was  anti-British,  and 
would  remain  so.  Therefore,  Germany  de- 
clared her  goodwill  towards  Ireland,  and  to 
the  present  day  Ireland  has  been  free  from 
the  terrors  of  Zeppelin  raids,  and  there  has 
been  no  German  bombardment  of  our  coast. 

Soon  after  arriving  in  Germany,  Roger 
Casement  lost  touch  with  Irish  affairs.     He 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  199 

still  believed  that  the  Irish  Volunteers  were  as 
badly  armed  as  when  he  left  Ireland.  He  did 
not  know  of  the  plans  for  the  rising,  nor  did 
he  know  who  were  to  be  the  leaders,  or  whether 
they  had  military  ability  or  not. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  leaders,  acting  on 
the  expression  of  goodwill,  had  asked  Ger- 
many to  send  them  some  arms.  I  wish  to  make 
it  plain  that  Germany  never  made  an  offer  to 
the  men  in  Ireland,  that  she  gave  nothing  to 
them,  not  even  the  expression  of  goodwill,  till 
she  was  asked,  and  that  when  a  request  for  aid 
came  from  Ireland,  it  was  not  for  money 
(England  has  kept  us  so  poor  that  we  have 
almost  learned  to  do  without  money),  nor  was 
it  for  men,  but  for  arms,  guns,  and  ammuni- 
tion. All  that  Germany  promised  in  return  to 
the  request,  was  that  she  would  make  the  at- 
tempt to  send  us  a  certain  amount  of  arms, 
but  as  the  ship  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet 
of  the  British  fleet,  she  would  promise  nothing. 

Tli is  answer  was  satisfactory  to  the  revolu- 
tionary leaders.  A  date  was  set  for  the  ship 
to  arrive,  and  a  place  designated. 

After  setting  the  date  and  sending  it  on  to 
Germany,  the  leaders  found  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  change  the  date.     Word  was  sent  to 


200  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Germany,  but  only  arrived  there  after  the  ship- 
load of  arms  had  set  out. 

About  this  time  Roger  Casement  heard  that 
a  revolution  was  about  to  take  place.  He 
asked  that  he  be  sent  over  to  Ireland.  There 
was  some  demur  at  this,  but  finally  they  con- 
sented and  gave  him  a  submarine.  With  him 
on  the  submarine  went  two  followers  of  Case- 
ment. 

The  shipload  of  arms  arrived  on  the  first 
appointed  date  but  the  men  in  Ireland,  not 
knowing  that  their  final  message  had  been  too 
late,  had  no  one  there  to  meet  it.  Consequent- 
ly, the  ship  had  to  hang  about  for  a  number 
of  hours,  and  finally  attracted  the  suspicion  of 
the  fleet  which  was  in  Queenstown  Harbor. 
When  challenged  by  the  fleet,  knowing  that 
subterfuge  was  hopeless,  the  Captain  ran  up 
the  German  flag,  and  sunk  the  vessel  with  all 
the  arms  and  ammunition. 

Shortly  after  this,  the  submarine  with  Case- 
ment and  the  two  other  men  arrived  off  the 
Irish  coast.  They  were  landed  with  the  aid 
of  a  collapsible  boat  belonging  to  the  subma- 
rine. Casement,  after  sending  a  message  to 
MacNeill  advising  against  the  Rising,  and  say- 
ing in  the  message  that  Germany  had  failed 


THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION  201 

us,  sought  shelter  in  an  old  ruin.  One  of  the 
men  managed  to  make  his  way  into  the  coun- 
try and  so  escaped.     Casement  was  arrested. 

Before  he  was  hanged  he  said  that  his  whole 
object  in  coming  to  Ireland  was  to  prevent  the 
Revolution.  He  did  not  do  so,  but  was,  per- 
haps, the  primary  cause  of  its  failure. 

Acting  on  Casement's  message  and  believ- 
ing it,  MacNeiil  sent  out  the  demobilizing 
orders.  Pie  had  sent  out  many  of  them  before 
the  other  leaders  became  aware  of  it.  He  also 
gave  instructions  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Irish 
Volunteers  to  send  out  more.  Then  Pearse 
and  MacDonagh  had  a  conference  with  him. 
After  the  conference  he  said  to  the  Secretary 
that  although  the  thing  was  hopeless,  he  was 
afraid  it  must  go  on. 

He  knew  that  the  revolutionary  leaders  had 
decided  that  the  revolution  must  take  place, 
even  though  the  loss  of  the  arms  had  seriously 
crippled  their  plans.  He  knew  that  a  disarma- 
ment of  the  Irish  Volunteers  had  been  threat- 
ened, also  the  imprisonment  of  the  leaders.  He 
knew  that  the  Volunteers  would  resist  the  dis- 
arming, and  that  the  leaders  still  thought  that 
they  would  have  a  good  fighting  chance. 

.When  he  knew  that  the  fight  would  go  on  in 


202  THE  UNBROKEN  TRADITION 

Dublin,  in  spite  of  his  order,  he  began  to  weigh 
up  the  consequences,  and  saw  nothing  before 
the  Irish  Volunteers  save  death  and  imprison- 
ment. The  responsibility  of  allowing  these 
men  to  go  out  to  meet  these,  weighed  too  heav- 
ily on  him,  and  he  thought  that  he  might  save 
the  Irish  Volunteers  in  the  country  from  them. 
Pie  then  had  a  message  inserted  in  the  Sunday 
Independent,  a  paper  that  went  to  all  the 
ncoks  and  corners  of  the  country,  to  the  effect 
that: 

"All  Volunteer  maneuvers  for  Sunday  are  canceled. 
Volunteers  everywhere  will  obey  this  order. 

(Signed)  Eoin  MacNeill. 

It  was  not  until  Sunday  morning  that  the 
other  leaders  knew  of  this  demobilization  order 
in  the  paper. 

The  consequences  of  this  order  in  the  paper, 
and  the  orders  that  were  sent  out  before  it,  I 
have  already  told. 


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